


Riding the Storm

by Maraudercat



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 17:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 49,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9283463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maraudercat/pseuds/Maraudercat
Summary: Fourteen-year-old Finnick Odair is forced to use all his wits, charm and skill to survive the Sixty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games. Younger than most volunteers, he has one big advantage: this isn't the first time in his life he has faced down death.Rating for standard HG violence.Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to Suzanne Collins or others who hold the rights to Hunger Games





	1. Sunrise

* * *

**Part I: Tribute**

* * *

I watch the sun rise from the roof of our house. I always liked sunrises as a kid, the rippling reds and oranges in the clouds as the sky and sea slowly turn from fiery golden orange to perfect blue. Until that day, nearly five years ago when the day-long storm broke and the glorious sunrise, reflected in the suddenly calm waters, rippled around the broken pieces of my family's boat. Around the battered and beaten bodies floating among the debris while I shivered on the wooden crate I managed to climb onto to ride out the nightmare.

The rescue boats came soon enough, got me and the three others from our boat who survived out first, then even managed most of the bodies, though we returned those to the sea again with proper rites the next night. Ours was one of nine boats that went down in the violent and sudden storm. But I was the only one who lost my entire family.

My Mom had the helm when the skies opened and I saw her desperately trying to steer us towards the sheltered bay only to get turned back again and again. Dad and my cousin Marni were madly tossing safety ropes to everyone on deck, to tie down so that no-one got swept away. When the first wave crashed across the bow and everyone stayed on board there was a ragged cheer. The second wave snapped three of the ropes, including Marni's and I saw her neck break as she hit the railing.

I shiver at the memory despite the warmth of the day, then nearly jump out of my skin as something moves behind me. I turn to grab whatever it is and find my fists balled in blue-and-white checked shirt and long light brown hair.

"Oris. Don't sneak up on me man."

Oris blinks those wide hazel eyes, then grins and pushes free of my grip, settling himself on the roof beside me.

"You'll have to be more aware than that if you ever plan on volunteering," he says smugly.

I swat him over the head, but can't help smiling back since he's right.

"I don't plan on volunteering until I'm big and old enough to win," I say with forced confidence. Honestly I'm not sure if I'll ever volunteer at all, for all I've been training. The fight training helps me drown out the memories and wears me out so that I can sleep without nightmares. It's the main reason I go. The main reason Oris has started coming along is that his Grandma was our district's first victor, and he knows that there's a good chance he might someday be reaped. It's not so bad in our district where there's usually a volunteer, but some years no-one puts their hand up and whoever's name gets called gets stuck fighting.

The fact that Oris' Grandma is a victor is probably the only reason I was allowed to move in with his family rather than going to the Community Home, so there are some advantages. Oris' Mom Greta and my Mom were best friends all through school, and our old house was only a few doors down the street. Of course someone else lives there now. All our old stuff is either here or got sold to pay the death taxes. Oris and I grew up practically like brothers, even though he's nearly two years younger so it wasn't all that strange to move in for good.

I see the flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye and grab his arm before he can shove me sideways. I twist suddenly, pinning it behind his back, hooking a foot around his legs to stop him from kicking free, and also to stop him falling off the roof. It doesn't take him long to call uncle, and I let him go with a grin. "See, I'm plenty aware."

He rubs his shoulder with a false pout. "Bully. You're much better than me. Taller, stronger."

"Older," I remind him pointedly, then smile. "Prettier too, apparently."

We both laugh at that. Oris is well enough for looks I guess, but people have always called me beautiful. When they were taking pictures of the survivors of the storm I kept getting dragged to the front even though there were others with far worse injuries. There's always been girls in school to giggle when I walk past, and I've been asked out by nearly half my class at some point or another. I've always been able to charm people into helping me with just a flutter of eyelashes and a quick smile, but the last year or so it's become ridiculous. Even one of my teachers started getting embarrassed around me so much that I had to change classes.

On the upside if I ever do volunteer for the Hunger Games, I'm pretty much guaranteed the captain's share of the sponsors. At fourteen and ten months, I'm only a few inches short of six feet tall and the years of fishing, sailing, swimming and training have given me plenty of lean muscle. In a year or two I could well be unstoppable. If I wanted.

A voice from inside the house makes us both turn. Greta is just like _her_ mother in some ways: You don't argue with her and you don't ever want to make her angry, but if she likes you she will help you and protect you with everything she has. Right now she's yelling my name, most likely having found my reaping clothes on the floor.

"You're in trouble," Oris taunts as we both climb down through the window into our room. Sure enough Greta is standing there in the doorway, fists on hips. She has the same wavy brown hair and hazel eyes as her son, though he can never look as fierce as she does.

She raises an eyebrow as I scoop up my father's old dress shirt and trousers off the floor and shake them out, hanging them over the bed post. I flash her my most winning smile and she rolls her eyes hugely before turning on Oris. "If you tear that climbing about, I'll stick you in one of my dresses for the reaping."

He grins as well, knowing as we all do that she would do no such thing. Relatives of victors almost always end up on camera at some point. I wonder for a minute why Oris has already changed into his good clothes, since the reaping isn't for another five hours. Then I realize he's scared and trying to hide it by being over-prepared.

I tousle his hair, messing up where he's already undoubtedly combed it and say, "Don't worry so much. If you get reaped I'm sure someone will volunteer to replace your scrawny ass. Hell, I'd volunteer for you just so I wouldn't have to watch you squirming in front of the cameras."

Oris has always hated his bit of celebrity. In a district where people count worth by ability, being known just for being related to someone famous tends to get you a sort of derisive respect. People acknowledge that you are known while constantly reminding you that you don't really deserve it. Last year they made a bit of a deal about it being his first reaping, as it was also Wenna Anderson, our most recent victor's sister's last. The commentators loved the thought of two mentors facing off with tribute relatives, even though Oris wasn't called and Wenna didn't volunteer.

Another yell from downstairs tells us that breakfast is ready, and that Oris should at least put on something over his good shirt so he doesn't have to worry about spills. That Greta doesn't argue about him already being dressed tells me she knows exactly why he's doing it too. Greta was on the stage once as well when she was eligible for reaping. We've heard the story from Mags, who after losing her son to sickness, glared at the crowd until someone volunteered for her daughter. Honestly I think Greta would have been a terrifying competitor. So would Mags, back in the old days when she won her Games.

I manage to keep Oris distracted for the rest of the morning helping me with my maths homework. I'm terrible at numbers once they start including letters and even though he's behind me in school he still knows more than I ever will about it. By the time we're done I have to change in a rush, foregoing a proper comb and using my fingers to ruffle my hair into its usual windswept look. Technically not as neat as we're supposed to be, but everyone loves it so I'm sure I can get away with it. The shirt is a little tight on me too; my last growth spurt left me as tall as my dad was, but I'm a little broader across the chest. Rather than risk the shirt tearing I pop the top button open.

Greta raises an eyebrow when she sees it and my hair, but doesn't comment. She pointedly confiscates Oris' comb, where he's brushing out his shoulder-length hair for the tenth time and waves us both out the door. Ricard, Oris' dad slings an arm around both our shoulders as we step out into the street.

"Come on boys, the faster we get to the reaping the sooner we can celebrate tonight."

Greta rolls her eyes again, but is smiling when she locks the door and we join the flow of people heading into town.

~xXx~

The reaping areas are separated by roped areas, with the oldest kids in the front so they can run forward to volunteer easily. It means me and Oris can still talk over the ropes as he's just turned thirteen and I'm still in the fourteens section. I'm glad since it gives me an excuse not to talk to the inevitable hovering crowd of girls. Brant, one of the guys in my class who I'm friendly enough with joins us to talk about who might be volunteering this year. No-one our age of course, unless they're crazy, but Brant's sister trains with some of the older girls, and apparently there's two or three talking about it.

From what I've seen there's always plenty of people talking, but rarely more than one person actually puts up their hand. When two people do both call at once, it's up to the mentors to decide who goes. Usually they pick well. In fact our last victor Wade was one of three people who called that year, and Gabriela and Morstan chose him even though he was smaller and younger because they knew that size isn't everything. Of course it helped that the arena was a collection of small islands connected by sandy bridges that disappeared at high tide. Since he could swim just fine he didn't have to wait until the tide went out to travel.

He's one of this year's mentors, I notice as he takes one of the seats closest to the mayor. Gabriela takes the other. She was smart as well as talented, from what I remember watching the replay of her Games in school. She hasn't mentored a victor yet, but has had a lot of top-three finishes and she does the rounds of the four training schools quite regularly so she knows what her volunteers are capable of. I remember seeing Wade at one training session, but he didn't actually teach anything or speak to the students. Just came and watched and sneered a bit. I feel sorry for whichever of our boys gets stuck with him.

Someone rings the harbor bell to call the reaping started and it doesn't take long for the crowd to quiet. Mayor Byron waits for the last whispers and the sea breeze to die down before she starts speaking. She's pretty well liked by most people, though she won't hesitate to punish anyone actually _caught_ smuggling or fishing outside the boundaries. It doesn't stop some people doing it of course, even though a first offence is a whipping followed by a dunk in salt water and a second offence is hanging.

Poor families whose fishing or seller licenses have been taken tend to do what they have to to survive. I'm just glad I never had to make that choice, though at least here in Four we don't have to fear so much about taking out tesserae.

Mayor Byron hands over to our Escort Acanthus Bloom. He's been the escort for District Four since before I was born, and from what I've heard Mags saying is a pretty decent guy. For a Capitol citizen, anyway. He gets through the preliminaries quickly and heads for the girl's reaping bowl first, as usual.

"Jana Peress."

I recognize her as she takes the stage as an older girl I've passed in the corridor at school. One of the gigglers, though the last time I saw her she was bawling about something. She's not crying now as she walks up the stairs and turns to face the crowd, though she is shaking a bit.

"And for the gentlemen," Acanthus says as he sweeps to the other bowl, and even though I know logically it won't be me and if it is there will be a volunteer, my breath still catches.

"Oris Martin."

I stop myself reaching forward and grabbing his arm, but it's a near thing. He turns and throws me what is supposed to be a cocky grin before he starts making his way to the stage, but I can see the fear in his eyes. I make myself grin back and clap his shoulder on the way past. He'll be fine. Being a victor's relative, we all knew it would probably happen someday. Better now when he's still young enough that someone will definitely volunteer. They always do when it's just a kid. Always. Then he and I can cheer them on back home tonight. It will be fine.

Once both tributes are on stage, Acanthus murmurs to both of them then gestures them towards the front of the stage. Very occasionally the person reaped doesn't want to be replaced and they can say so now. Both of them take the step forward and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Very well, we shall now ask for volunteers for the lovely Miss Peress. Ladies?"

Two cries of "I volunteer!" echo from near the front. I recognize the dark-haired girl as Anita Salter, an eighteen-year-old from the same training school I go to. She's pretty good from what I've seen.

The other girl is lighter-haired and less muscled, though definitely better looking. Gabriella and Wade confer for a minute before gesturing Anita up. She goes with a cheerful whoop and the crowd applauds as she high-fives Jana on the way past.

"And now, volunteers for Mister Martin. Gentlemen?"

There's no cry straight away. A few people start muttering and they show the first roped area on the big screen, where the eighteen-year-olds shuffle restlessly. I recognize two of them near the front who were talking themselves up just last week at training about how they really were going to do it this year. One is staring resolutely at the ground, the other takes a half step forward and begins to raise his hand, then shakes his head and stays quiet.

The screen cuts back to the reaping stage, where Oris' eyes have gone wide and his fists are clenched tight. Mags, off to the side with the other non-mentor victors is shaking her head and muttering to one of the other victors, Nimia Arran. Another rattle of wind through the pennant flags strung about the square makes me realize there isn't going to be a volunteer. I am going to go home tonight with his parents, who took me in and raised me like their own son, while their real child fights to the death on screen.

No, I won't let that happen. I can't. I'm not ready for the Games, but I'm way more prepared than Oris and I owe him and them this. They gave me a life when I thought I'd lost everything. Now I can pay them back.

"I volunteer," I yell just as Acanthus opens his mouth to declare the reaping done. I'm tall enough that he sees my arm above the crowd of people in the pens. He waves me to come up, and I brush aside several reaching arms on the way out. Girls, I realize when I hear someone say, "Not Finnick, he's too pretty to die!"

I'm tempted to turn back and tell her that I'm not planning on dying, but I see Oris on stage. He's recognized me and is shaking his head and arguing with our Escort. Probably asking him not to let me replace him. I hurry up the stairs and sling an arm around his shoulders as I give my name. As the crowd applauds, I use my grip to steer the boy who is my brother in all but blood off to the side where he can't argue any more. Mags grabs him and covers his mouth with one hand as the Mayor starts the reading of the Treaty. She gives me a sad smile as I take my place facing the sea of people below. For the second time in my life I will be facing death, only this time I have to do it with a smile.


	2. Chapter 2

Oris punches me as soon as he steps in the door. "You idiot! Now you're going to die and it's all my fault!"

I grab his arm before the next swing and twist, shoving him into the nearest chair as Greta and Ric follow him in. Ric walks around behind the chair and plants his hands firmly on Oris shoulders, stopping his son from getting back up. Greta reaches up and touches the stinging side of my face where the fist connected.

"Either way I'm losing a son," she says softly as she pulls me into a tight hug. I hug her back, since she's not usually this way and she's been as good a mother to me as my own was. I pretend not to notice the sob and pull back, forcing a smile. As a volunteer, even a young one, I should be ok for the pack as long as I don't look weak. If I start crying now I'll be in trouble.

"Yeah," I say as cheerfully as I can, "But this son has five years of training not eight months, and if I need anything I'll just blow a kiss to the cameras. I'll be back before you know it and then we can all live in the Victor's Village together."

Now I look Oris in the eyes because I need him to understand. "And if I don't make it I expect you to find a pretty girl and name your first born son after me and tell him stories about my magnificence."

Oris snorts and swats at me gently. Jokingly I step back. "Hey, you've already marred my pretty face. I'm going to need that to look good for the sponsors, and you'd better stay looking good too so when they come interview you, you can charm all the Capitol ladies as well."

He smiles and leaps out of the seat to tousle my hair and straighten my shirt, before pulling me into a bear hug. "You know I will Finn. And thank you."

He wipes his eyes on the back of his sleeve as we pull apart and I know he will probably not cry again. He will be strong for me, and stay strong if I don't make it. Ric comes over next and gives me a brief hug as well. We've never been as close as I was to Oris or Greta, but he's still the closest thing I have left to a father.

"Remember Finn, don't let them see you scared. If you're afraid they'll sense it and they will hunt you down like a pack of sharks on an injured swimmer. Be brave, be strong and above all, be smart."

"Of course," I tell him with another grin. "I wouldn't know how to be anything else."

They all laugh, and we spend the minutes until the Peacekeepers come devising a district token from various people's jewelry. Usually a volunteer would tell their family in advance, and their loved ones would have a token ready, generally a necklace or bracelet with bits from everyone. Ric has a bit of fishing line in his pocket, and we tie to it one of Greta's shark-tooth earrings and two of the carved shell beads from Oris' hair. I'll ask anyone else that stops in for objects too, and should have a decent token once I'm done. Pernelle Darcy, whose family owns most of the oyster racks stops in to snap a quick photo as she does every year of the tribute's family, and gives me a little pearl bead from her hair comb.

Brant and a couple of boys from school come in next, mostly to wish me luck, though Brant says that at least a dozen girls are claiming to be my girlfriend outside. I'm not close with any of the girls at school so I tell the peacekeepers not to let any of them in. Instead, my next visitors are two of the fight trainers. Torric just claps me on the shoulder and tells me to do my best and to make sure I get my hands on a spear and some nets. He was the one who taught me 'fisherman's fighting', and knows I'm pretty good at it.

Marcia has quite a different opinion and actually yells at me for wasting my potential by volunteering far too young.

"So I should have just left Oris standing up there to die?" I snap back, and her face softens momentarily before falling back to its customary scowl.

"If you're playing from the heart _you_ will die Finnick. If you want to come out alive you have to only think about what's best for you from now on. No more acts of mercy or sacrifice. Got it?"

I nod, because she is right. And I remember she lost her twin sister in the Games about nine years back, a volunteer who let revenge get in the way of good sense. We watched the replays of all the old Games with some of the trainers so they could point out where our tributes went wrong. Marcia talked about her sister's mistakes like they were no different to any of the others, and if anyone understood about hardening their heart and pushing those sorts of feelings aside it would be her.

My last visitor is old Corrly Webster, who used to work on our boat. He was one of the others that survived the storm, though they had to cut off his foot after it was crushed. I never knew him that well for all I worked beside him, and he doesn't seem to know what to say. Eventually he claps my shoulder and tells me I've lived through worse than this and that my parents would be proud that I stepped in for Oris. I shake his hand and watch him shuffle out, his wooden foot clacking along in counterpoint with the thump of his cane until his scrawny frame is replaced by a pair of peacekeepers, who gesture for me to follow.

I finish tying off the crossed sword and trident pendant that Torric gave me for my token and head out, making sure my hair is properly ruffled for the cameras. I had hoped that Mags, who had always been something of a surrogate grandmother to me would come to see me off, and maybe give me some useful advice. I figure she got caught up with reporters, what with Oris getting reaped and just didn't have time.

Acanthus holds us for a second in the foyer while a Games official snaps our head-shots, then we bundle into the car for the brief drive to the train station.

Anita grins at me once we get moving. "Hey Finn. Glad it's you and not the Martin kid. At least I won't have to look out for you much."

"I can look after myself," I tell her with a wink and she rolls her eyes exaggeratedly in reply.

"Well," she says as she settles back into the seat, "At least the pack won't be going short on sponsors. Don't worry, I'll point that out if the others miss it and don't want to bring in a kid as young as you."

She reaches over and pats my head, and I remember Marcia's words about not playing from the heart. Anita probably thinks she can use my good looks and charm to set herself up, and that I'll follow her lead and do whatever she wants as long as she's looking out for me. I figure it won't hurt to play along for now, but I won't let her friendly gestures stop me from doing what I have to.

Acanthus has us pose outside the train for a final round of photos, and I notice even though I'm three inches taller than Anita he subtly pushes me to the front. Into the limelight so the Capitol can see my beauty. I smile and wave, and even blow a kiss towards one younger woman. From the corner of my eye I see Anita scowl slightly, though at our Escort, not me. She knows exactly what he's doing too.

When we do finally get to board the train, I get another surprise. Gabriela waves Anita over for a brief chat, and I turn resignedly to where I assume Wade is sitting, but he isn't there. Instead Mags, her knitting needles already out and clacking, smiles up at me.

"I certainly wasn't going to let that idiot Anderson get you killed after you volunteered for my grandson," she says, as blunt as ever.

"Wade didn't argue?" I ask as I take the seat beside her.

"Of course he did," she replies. "You can see how well that went for him."

The fact that he tried to argue with Mags, whose stubbornness is legendary in our district actually makes me respect him a little more.

"Now," she says as her fingers delicately twist the wool on her needles, "Why don't you go get cleaned up before lunch. Find something nice in the drawers, blue or green if you can. And don't be too long or we'll eat the lot without you."

I know better than to argue, and hurry back down to the room I was shown.

~xXx~

After a hearty lunch, I spend the afternoon with Mags starting to plot out my strategy for the Games. She knows from many conversations over Sunday lunches what my fighting style is, and agrees that it's probably my best bet for combat. She also knows that my experience adrift as a child, surrounded by the bodies of my family means I can handle the mental side of things. I've seen death, I've been surrounded by it and faced it alone and scared in the dark. I doubt anything in the arena could be worse.

Finally she sighs and looks out the window for a minute in silence. I'm about to jump in with a funny comment when she turns back to me and sighs again.

"You have to know, before you get in over your head. It's a shame you're so good looking."

This takes me back. Everyone knows that the better looking tributes always get more sponsors and I've never seen anyone consider it a disadvantage.

"You'll have sponsors lined up around the street, and some of them will be throwing money because they like you, because you're pretty or charming or whatever. Others will see it as an...investment."

I snort. "What, they think if they sponsor me I'll...I dunno, go out on a date with them after or something?"

"Yes," she says bluntly, and goes back to scowling out the window. "In fact a date is about the best you can hope for. Some of them will want more than just dinner and flirting."

"And what if I don't like them? What if it's someone old or nasty?"

"That," she says with a sigh, "would be your problem, not theirs. It never used to be so bad, but over the years certain...factors in the Capitol have started using victors to gain support more and more. Factors with a great deal of power who will not be defied in these matters."

"So what, if an ugly old lady with a lot of money says she wants me to...you know...and I say no, someone from the government will come after me?"

"Worse" she says, her lip curling unconsciously. "They'll go after your family, your friends. Anyone you care about. Your tributes even."

I think back two years ago, when Gabriela's tribute was the favorite to win until she suddenly started getting random muttation attacks. Nothing that directly killed her, but the bite from one of the bats left her pretty sick and she died early when the pack went melee. Or the year before, Wade's first tribute who fell when a rope bridge he was crossing snapped. Of course the victor that year had gone around weakening all the ropes she could find, but I was sure that that particular bridge hadn't been one of them. The fall broke Persy's back and his allies offed him as a mercy kill on the spot.

The sort of tricks the Gamemakers use to keep the Games going, to keep things interesting. Usually they don't target volunteers who are part of the pack actively hunting down other tributes though, which is probably why they stuck in my head.

"I imagine," Mags says, startling me from my thoughts, "the first thing they would do is reap Oris again."

Of course this is all speculation until after I actually get through these Games.

"So you don't want me to play up to the sponsors then?" I ask and she purses her lips in thought.

"No, you may need them. And most will sponsor you whether you play up to them or not. Just remember that there are consequences."

She gives me another of those sad smiles. "I thought you would rather know."

I would. I grin at her. "Thanks Mags. At least I know I won't be going hungry, and as long as I'm feeding my allies they'll keep me around for a bit. I'll worry about the rest once I get out the other side."

She reaches over and tousles my hair, just like Greta does. "That's my boy. Now, why don't you go get some rest until dinner."

~xXx~

After dinner we all squish onto the couches to watch the reaping replays, and Anita throws a companionable arm around my shoulders.

"Don't worry Finn, I'll protect you from the scary tributes," she says with a grin. I shove the arm aside with a smile.

"Funny, I was about to say the same thing to you."

Her laugh is cut off by the anthem as Acanthus nudges up the volume and we settle in to see our competition.

The boy from One, Angelus has a smug smirk that suggests arrogance as he waves to the crowd. He's alright looking, golden curls to his shoulders and all that, but not as pretty as me. The girl is unusually dark for their district. As tanned as anyone from Four with dark auburn hair cropped short. Not the prettiest girl around, and a genuine looking smile, so I figure it will be easy enough to get her on side.

The pair from Two look typically strong. The boy, Marcellus looks around my height, though he's stockier. The girl, Carla is around the same build as Anita and doesn't flinch one bit when she and her district partner shake hands. Neither of them are attractive enough that they would have been counting on their looks for sponsors, so my place in the pack should be pretty set.

Nothing interesting from District Three, then the screen turns to our reaping. Mags rolls her eyes hugely when Claudius Templesmith says he can't wait to see Oris in action. Both he and Caesar comment favorably on Anita, and I catch her smiling out of the corner of my eye. Then it's my turn, and I'm happy to see they cut out the delay in my volunteering. Both commentators gasp when they see me and spend the rest of that segment and most of the District Five reaping discussing the last time they had someone with my good looks in the Games.

Mags and Gabriela snort almost in unison and Anita pretends to gag into her cushion. I try very hard not to think about my conversation with Mags earlier and focus on the faces of the tributes from District Six. The boy, Solphis is the biggest tribute so far, and even without training, not someone I'd want to pick a fight with. The boy from Eight and the girl from Ten look pretty tough too.

Mags lets out a gasp when the boy from Ten is called, and she and Gabriela share a pointed look as Tarris Smith makes his way to the stage. Claudius seems uninterested, but Caesar in the cut-away box holds one hand to his ear and nods before giving his trademark grin.

"Exiting news folks! Tarris here is the nephew of one of our previous victors, Pelline Smith. That's right people, last year's winning mentor will now be working with her own kin. Can she go back to back for her district? Should be exciting!"

I think back to last year's Games, the big burly boy from Ten who clearly wasn't right in the head even from the start. As soon as the gong rang he ran to the Cornucopia and grabbed one of the giant spiky maces there and flattened anyone who came near. Of course most of the volunteer pack went in, and if the usual haul had been there I'm sure one of them would have taken him out. Instead the only weapons were more heavy maces, and by the time they figured it out Oryx had brained half of them.

The rest followed, and we spent nine days watching a boy turn into an animal, actually howling at the moon and snarling and growling as he smashed his foes to a pulp. Three weeks after his Games ended, his mentor Pelline ended up giving the final interview for him, and he only said one sentence at each stop on the victory tour, as though he had somehow forgotten how to talk.

I wonder if the reaping is punishment of some sort for not getting him right. Judging by Mags and Gabriela's reactions, I'm guessing they think so.

The girl from Eleven looks like she could put up a fight, but the reaping ends, as usual with a whimper in the poorer districts.

Acanthus nudges the volume back down and pulls out a gaudy gem-encrusted watch from his vest pocket.

"Two more hours, I expect," he says in that nasal Capitol accent. "You might all wish to go freshen up before we arrive."

Mags laughs. "Time was we didn't get into the Capitol until morning. I know there was all sorts of trouble when the old train tracks got damaged a few years back, but I for one am thankful."

"How did they get damaged?" Anita asks as she stands and stretches her clasped fingers to the ceiling.

Acanthus clears his throat and throws Mags a brief, pointed glare before replying.

"Oh, you know. Old age. Things tend to get a bit worn down over time and need replacing."

Mags smiles dangerously at him, but chooses not to reply. I'm sure there's more to the story, but for now it's not something to be worrying about. I go back to my room and watch the world flash past out the window while I tie knots in one of the soft leather belts from the cupboard, letting my mind drift away from any thoughts of the days to come.


	3. Chapter 3

I've always seen the crowds that greet the tribute trains on TV, but nothing prepares me for the sheer roar of sound as I step onto the platform. Usually we see maybe fifty or sixty people in the TV shots, maybe up to twice that if there's a particularly interesting tribute. At a first glance I count at least two hundred, mostly girls, a large knot of them chanting something over and over.

It takes me a minute to realize it's my name they are yelling and for a moment I want only to hide behind Anita until they stop making such a fuss. But I can't do that, and if I want them throwing money at me because they like me I have to actually make them like me first. I quickly tousle my hair and step into the center of the platform, smiling and waving, trying to catch their eyes.

"Show off," Anita mutters behind me, and I grin at her and pull her up next to me, quickly letting go of her hand. She manages to slip on her smile and waves along, and the chant slowly turns to "Four".

Off to the side there's a row of camera-wielders filming and snapping away. We pose individually, together, with Mags and Gabriela, and then with Acanthus, who seems to enjoy the attention. Reporters yell out questions, or at least I assume they do, but I can't hear them over the roar of the crowd. I'm not too worried; I'll get my chance to talk later, and I want to check with Mags before I say anything wrong.

By the time we get into the waiting cars I realize my legs are a bit shaky and my head is spinning. Anita beside me looks just as dazed, though Acanthus doesn't seem bothered. I assume our mentors are in the other car, and spend the short journey staring out the window trying not to gape at the surrounding city. All my life I've grown up beside the enormity of the ocean, its endless waves rolling from the deep uncharted waters beyond the allowed zone.

The Capitol is just as powerful and huge in a different way, though I can't help but picture the colorful crowds we zoom past as schools of strange fish, all swimming along together taking turns being the leader and moving as one. At least until a shark turns up. Then they all scuttle off their own way, worried only about protecting themselves, until the shark eats its fill and moves on. Then they go right back to sticking together like nothing has changed. Sort of like our district does every year that their volunteers don't come back. I wonder if the sharks in this case are the other tributes or the Gamemakers. Probably both. No matter how many we kill the sea never lacks for sharks.

I look up as we hop out of our cars, and for the first time since the reaping stage am truly unnerved. Somehow there aren't any stars in the sky. I can see the moon bright enough, about half-full, though somehow dull and distant but clearly not covered by clouds. It should be surrounded by all those little pinpricks of light that make up the familiar constellations I've known since I was little. No bear, no fisherman, no sea-serpent. Not even Polaris, the North star.

Anita comes over to me and nudges me with a sharp elbow. I point upwards and watch as her eyes widen in surprise too.

"It's the city lights," Gabriela says from behind me. "Nothing we have in Four is enough to do more than dim the stars a bit. Here in the Capitol though..."

She trails off when she sees the press of people heading towards us from the surrounding streets, apparently having recognized us.

"Come on you two, let's get inside. Unless you want another round with the horde?"

That's enough to get both of us moving, Mags and Acanthus following in the rear. The Remake Center lobby is filled with gaudy colored sculptures and has a golden spiraling fountain encrusted with gems standing in the middle of the brightly lit room. Water trickles down over the rippled surface causing the gems to sparkle in multicolored flickers. Another elbow nudges me, Mags this time, and I follow her and the rest into the lift. We follow a woman dressed in Games colors—red and gold—to a small apartment which will be our home for just tonight.

Tomorrow is for getting prepped for the parade, and also for all our training and interviews to come. Tonight however is for sleeping, and I drop off almost as soon as my head hits the strangely soft pillow.

~xXx~

I dream of the storm. It's not uncommon and I've learned over the years how to ride it out without it being too bad, though this time I'm attacked by a school of brightly colored sharks who flicker with rainbow sparkles as they try to knock me off my wooden crate. In reality there were only a few sharks that came, and that was only after the storm ended. They went after the bodies in the water and pretty much left me alone. It didn't take much longer after that for the rescue boats to find us, or what was left of us so I was only on that wooden crate for maybe a day in total.

In my dreams it always seems much longer. There is always lightning and the pounding rain. The roar of the water around me and the strange cries that don't quite sound human (I think it was Corrly screaming in pain some distance away, his words mangled by the swirling winds), and the creaking and grinding of the bits of wood and plas-glass as they collide in the churning waves.

The sudden slosh of cold water that makes even the little cuts all over me sting, the ache in my arms as I cling on, shivering as the wind tugs again and again at my wet shirt. The loud thump as a body bangs against my crate. It was face-down so I never saw who. From the back it could even have been my mother. I never looked, just put my face down against the wood and hung on, praying for it all to end.

Once or twice an hour the waves wash me off despite my desperate hold and I scramble through the water to climb back on. I know if I get stuck in the ocean for too long I'll freeze and definitely die. Or maybe drown once I get too tired from keeping my head above water. Every time I manage to get back to that bit of floating life and clamber back on top, clinging on with frozen fingers once again.

In the dreams everything is always even more surreal. Giant monsters rise up from the waves, or sail down from the clouds to attack me. Sometimes I have my fishing spear, my trident, and I fight them off. Sometimes I win, other times they eat me. Sometimes a bolt of lightning strikes and my whole body feels like it's on fire. The last time that happened I fell out of bed yelling and gave myself a bloody nose when I hit the floor.

This time there's no monsters (besides the sharks) and the lightning doesn't come near. I hear the bump of the body and look down, expecting the usual dark figure. This time it's face up and it's eyes are open. Oris, screaming as the sharks stop attacking me and go to him, tearing off chunks while he screams and writhes. All the time I stay frozen on my crate, just high enough to be safe while I watch him die.

I wake with a gasp, and shiver as the smooth sheets sliver away from me, like water rippling from my body as I slide free of the ocean. After I got back with the rescue boats, everyone seemed to think I would be scared of the sea. They all seemed surprised how keen and eager I was to get back out there whenever I could, to submerge myself beneath those rippling waters again.

None of them understood that it was where I felt most alive. After all the terror and horror of that day and night, the normal days always felt dull and lifeless around me. Sometimes I'd feel a bit of a buzz when I fought someone at training, or went climbing from roof-top to roof-top across the neighboring houses. But in the water, especially under the water I could feel whole again. My Mom and Dad and Aunt and Uncle and cousin Marni and Grandma were all buried at sea, and when I'm underwater I can feel their spirits swirling beside me, giving me strength.

I just hope there's water in the arena. If it's anything like Wade Anderson's arena I have no doubt I could win. Even a standard forest with lakes and streams would be ok. I wouldn't want a desert though, or one of those rocky canyons that they sometimes throw in. Or something man-made like the junkyard from a few years back or the swinging rope bridges that ran from tree to giant tree.

No matter what, I guess I'll just have to adapt. At least I'll probably have allies, for the early Games anyway, and I'll definitely have sponsors. There's usually spears at the Cornucopia (I hope they won't repeat last year's experiment with just one type of weapon), and I'm not too bad with knives. I can make a net out of any ropes or kelp or vines or grasses. I'll manage, and if anything is going to make me feel alive it will be having to fight for my life against other people trying to kill me.

No, not other people, just sharks. They might circle for a bit, or swim passes but eventually they will all attack in the end and I'll have to kill them anyway. Might as well get the jump on them, and there's nothing wrong with killing sharks.

I repeat this over and over in my head until a knock at the door startles me.

"I'm up," I yell.

"Good," Acanthus replies. "Breakfast, now. Your stylist wants you in half an hour."

I groan and push myself out of bed, dropping to the floor for my morning set of push-ups and sit-ups before I find my shirt and wander out to the kitchen, not bothering to do up the buttons. Anita is just sitting down, rubbing her eyes and yawning. She gives me a sleepy grin and says "Morning Finn. Nice chest, pity it doesn't have any hair yet."

I stick my tongue out at her in reply and grab a plate, loading up with sausages and bacon and scrambled eggs. Treats like I normally only get when we eat up at Mags' place in the Village. There's fresh fruit too, and some candy nuts which Mags seems to be hoarding. I steal a fist-full when she turns to say something to Gabriela and crunch them down, licking my fingers to get every bit of sugar.

I swipe another hand-full as I stand up and wander over to the window which overlooks the city. In the distance I can see the Training Center, which they always show on TV during the Games among the other tall buildings. On the streets below there's a slight ripple of movement as people begin their morning business. I've never thought much about what sort of work people in the Capitol do, beyond stuff like the fashion designers and celebrities we see on TV. I'm sure there are plenty who work for the government and stuff, but there must also be people who sell food and drinks and who take out the trash. There's a few reporters hanging out, though I guess most of them are around the front near the entrance, waiting for the morning tribute trains to get in from the outer districts.

Another knock on the door catches all of our attention. Acanthus confers with whoever it is for a minute, then waves me over to where Anita is already waiting.

"Finnick, you follow Pelagius here, he's going to take you to the prep rooms and start getting you ready. Anita dear, you go with Xenia."

"See you later pretty boy," Anita says, nudging my shoulder as she walks past.

"Hey," I call to her retreating back, "no matter how much they clean you up, you'll never be as pretty as me."

She flashes a rude gesture over her shoulder and I laugh, before turning to the tall, skinny Pelagius. He has a few inches on me, though not nearly enough weight to beat me in hand-to-hand, and he stands flat-footed as his eyes roam up and down my body, taking in my sleep-messed hair, unbuttoned shirt and bare feet.

"This way," he says, his accent sharp and slightly lisping. He leads me in towards the same lift as Anita, up two floors and along to a room with a huge tub, already sloshing with scented water.

"One thing I do like about you kids from Four, at least you're mostly clean," a woman comments from the other side. She has bright yellow hair teased out from her head and dotted with metallic beads that glitter as she moves.

"I'm Euthalia and this is Theodorus. We're going to get you all cleaned up for your stylist. Not that you need much work, a gorgeous thing like you."

"Thanks," I say with a grin. I figure now's as good a time as any to dust off my charm. "You're pretty gorgeous yourself."

She's wearing enough make-up that I can't tell if she blushes, though her ears look a bit red.

"Well now, why don't you just hop into the tub and we'll get started. Just toss those old clothes over here for now. And this is your token? Yes, well we'll look after that, you just hop in now and let us do our jobs."

I untie my necklace, which she puts on the bench by a line of serious looking brushes and combs and toss my shirt in the corner. I feel like it should be strange to strip naked while three strangers watch, but I've spent enough years swimming naked or near-naked with all sorts to feel comfortable nude. I jump in the tub, sighing as the warm silky water sloshes around me. Euthalia nudges me forwards and starts scrubbing my back, while Pelagius starts on my feet and Theodorus on my hands.

Once they're done scrubbing they empty out the water and rinse me off with a shower head, then re-fill the tub with a new batch of water. More scrubbing and rinsing, this time with a sweet-smelling soap, and finally Euthalia lets me up to move to the bed. Theodorus has me lean my head back into a second smaller tub and he rinses out my hair for a third time, rubbing in some sort of sweet-smelling goo, then runs a razor over my chin though I don't really have much growing there. Pelagius scrapes away at my nails with some sort of file while Euthalia takes some quick measurements with a knotted piece of string.

She disappears briefly, and when she comes back she has a small case that opens to reveal a little syringe, already filled with a dark yellow liquid.

"Just a quick shot sweetie, to make sure you don't get too rough looking as the Games go on. And it will stop you getting...ah...distracted by things. Don't worry, the dose only lasts for a month and you'll be done needing it one way or another by then."

She jabs the point in my upper arm before I can reply, and I feel the effect almost instantly. My body, which had quite been enjoying having hands rubbing all over me suddenly seems a whole lot less interested. Now it's my turn to try not to blush.

"All the boys have one sweetie," she says as she packs the case back up and it on the bench beside my necklace. "It stops all sorts of problems and prevents nasty things from happening in the arena."

I guess it's good that I won't be too distracted by any of the girls I have to fight, but I still don't like it.

I don't get a chance to complain though, as Theodorous finishes fiddling with my hair and orders me up and standing. I'm told to close my eyes and shiver as a sudden cold spray hits my bare skin, as though I'm on the prow of a boat slicing the waves. When the spraying stops, they all jump in to rub in the liquid, which, when I sneak a quick peek, makes my tanned skin glisten as though I've just stepped out of the sea. All the while, the three of them chatter away, commenting on the tone of my muscles, on the color of my hair and, especially, my eyes.

"Perfect!" Euthalia announces. "I'll go fetch Phineas. He's so happy to get such a gorgeous tribute that he's been working _all_ morning!"

I just smile and hope that working means I'll be wearing more that the fishing net our tribute had on last year. Theodorous goes back to tweaking my hair, sometimes moving single strands at a time before he steps back to examine his handiwork. Pelagius nudges him aside at one point and uses a small and very fancy looking camera to take several pictures of my eyes. Apparently for color matching my interview outfit.

My stomach rumbles loudly as he shuffles off muttering about turquoise versus sea green, and I realize it must be past midday. The door bangs open and Euthalia scurries in carrying a large box, followed by my stylist Phineas Pyne. He's been around at least the last seven or eight years for Four, the left side of his face distinctively tattooed in swirling patterns in various shades of blue and purple.

Mostly he dresses our boys all right I guess, though the outfits never seem to involve much material. Probably because the Capitol thinks we all go about nearly naked working out on the water. He circles me twice and I make myself stay still, not covering what I feel I should when his gaze lingers on my body.

"You really are a fine physical specimen. Good muscle tone, superb lines. And those eyes. Oh yes I can definitely work with that."

He reaches out and runs a finger down the side of my face. I clench my fists and try not to shudder.

He turns away with a flourish of his arm.

"Euthalia, fetch the second box of pastels, we will be needing something a bit more delicate. Theodorous, the diamond flecks. Have them ready to dust at the last minute. And some highlight strips. I want at least three shades in there. Pelagius, start on the box."

They all scurry to obey. I am relieved when the first thing Pelagius pulls from the box is underwear, followed by a long white cloth that he wraps around my waist and pins so that the longest fold covers my privates completely. The next thing is a circular piece of clear plastic that sits over the top. He grins and points me towards one of the side tables, where there is a bowl of soup and a tray of breads piled up with colorful vegetables.

"Eat up," he says. "Don't take too long though. We still have plenty of work to do. But don't eat too fast. We don't want you bloating. It would completely ruin your image."

He scurries back over to the box to fiddle with what I assume is the rest of my outfit. I look around for Phineas, but he's vanished, so I tuck in. The soup is very good, thick and creamy, nothing at all like the seafood chowders we make back home.

My stylist returns just as I'm brushing off the last few breadcrumbs from my plastic covering over my lap.

"Sated?" He asks, and beckons me over before I reply. "Well then, let us begin in turning this raw beauty into an artwork of refined perfection."

Apparently this means more stuff sprayed and rubbed onto my skin, followed by painted designs on my back, hands and feet. Euthalia wields some sort of tiny metal wand that sprays fine mists of paint, drawing out fish scales in shimmering blue-greens. Over this Pelagius drapes a cape of sea-shells on strings of line, tied at my shoulders and ending just past my thighs so that plenty of skin still shows through the gaps.

Theodorous wraps bits of my hair in silver foil, checking against his watch and pulling them out over staggered intervals. When I get a glimpse in the mirror I see that wherever they were is a slightly lighter color, like Oris' hair goes when he spends time in the sun. Mine never does it naturally.

Finally he dusts the tips of my hair with a fine sparkling powder, like salt from the water that's baked dry in the sun. They all stand back to admire their work, and when I see myself in the mirror I can't blame them. I do look pretty, and not nearly as young. Which is good for getting in with both the pack and the sponsors.

We head downstairs, all four of them chattering around me to the basement where the other tributes are waiting. Anita is just ahead of me, her hair arranged around a netted veil. She is also wearing sea-shells, though at least some of her chest is covered. I glance around at the other tributes. Most of them seem to be wearing more than us.

"Because we all spend our days naked and swimming," mutters Anita, channelling my earlier thoughts. She snorts loudly. "My family makes nets. I haven't been out on the water for months."

Just behind her the girl from District Five giggles. We both turn to look at her and she ducks her head and blushes, but finally decides to speak up.

"I know what you mean. We live out by one of the solar power stations." She gestures to her costume, long and white with a propeller contraption on top of her head. "Never been in ten miles of the wind turbines up the coast, even on reaping day. I'm Maria by the way."

She gives me another side-long glance and Anita turns aside to pull a face only I can see.

"Nice to meet you Maria," I say with a smile. Can't hurt to charm the other girls. If it makes them less likely to attack me then it's my advantage. "But I think my mentor wants me."

Sure enough Mags waves and I wander over to her side so she can make a last-minute adjustment to my hair.

"Good enough," she says as she straightens two of the sea-shell strings. "Now go out there and smile for the people. No blowing kisses though. Just smile and wave."

I get up on the chariot, Anita beside me and we go smile and wave. We can hear the cheering as soon as the doors open and the kids from District One—Angelus and Citrine I remember—lead off the parade. Marcellus and Carla are next, both holding giant hammers and chisels in overalls covered with white dust. The District Three kids ahead of us scramble to balance when their chariot starts moving. Both are pretty small and wearing shiny black plastic. Then it is our turn.

I thought the cheering, chanting crowd was loud before, but as soon as we appear the sound swells around me to a deafening roar. I can hear my name being yelled from all directions, and forget Mags' instructions to do no more than smile and wave until I'm nearly half way along. I figure as long as I've been blowing kisses I might as well keep going, though I try only to aim them for younger, prettier girls.

By the time we get to the City Circle in front of the Training Centre my arm is aching from waving and my jaw hurts from smiling so much.

I try not to fidget too much during President Snow's speech and breathe a sigh of relief when we start rolling in to our new home, the Training Center. The cries from the crowd seem to follow me in and I keep my smile up, turning and giving one last wave as we pass through the double doors.

I jump down from the chariot as soon as we roll to a stop and, remembering my manners, offer an arm to help Anita down. She takes it and reaches up to tousle my hair when her feet hit the ground. I hear an amused snort from behind and turn to see the pair from Two.

"So pretty boy," Marcellus sneers at me, "can you do more than smile and flirt with girls?"

To my surprise, I feel Anita tense behind me, ready to come to my defense, as she promised. I just throw the bigger boy an easy smile, flicking my eyes to his district partner a step behind him.

"Of course. I'd be crazy to volunteer otherwise."

He backs off a bit when he sees I'm not intimidated, especially since I'm not much shorter, though he has me on brawn.

"At least we won't be lacking for sponsors," his district partner Carla says, giving both of us an appraising look before smiling. "Carla Evans," she adds, holding out her hand. "In case you weren't paying attention to the reapings."

I take it and shake firmly before raising it to my lips and laying a quick kiss on the back, like the romantics in the old movies do. "It would have been hard to miss you even if I wasn't paying attention."

Marcellus gives a disgusted grunt, but she just laughs, as does Anita, who also shakes her hand. The kids from One seem about to wander over to join us, but are redirected by a pair of Games staff in fancy red and gold outfits. Another pair seem headed over to us and I glance behind them where our mentors are waiting by the lifts.

Apparently Anita spots them too because she says, "See you in training tomorrow I guess. We can talk more then."

They both nod and head back to their team. I recognize Carla's mentor as Enobaria Cavera, the crazy woman who ripped out our tribute's throat with her teeth a few years back, then lay laughing in a pool of his blood while waiting for the trumpets. I hope my new ally isn't quite so psycho. I don't recognize Marcellus' mentor by name, a middle-aged guy with a darker tan than Anita, and long dark hair split with a gray streak.

Mags, Gabriela and our stylists have already gone by the time we reach the lifts, though Acanthus waves us importantly over and ushers us in. The apartment we step out into is huge and spacious, and full of ugly and uncomfortable looking furniture. I hate it.

My room is a bit better once I discover the shower, which has about a hundred settings, all of them good since I can close my eyes and sort of pretend I'm back home on or under the water. I make myself get out when my fingers start wrinkling and grab a random handful of clothes from the dresser, figuring they're all probably my size and toss anything I don't like onto the enormous bed.

I get a wafting smell of food as I open the door and my stomach rumbles loudly, reminding me I haven't eaten much today. Feeling much better I head down the hall for dinner.


	4. Chapter 4

The gymnasium below the Training Center is every athlete's dream. Our training school's equipment is well worn and we always have to take turns sparring because there's not enough floor space. Off to the left I can already see a spear-fighting station with more of the weapons than we have at home.

Beyond that there's areas for swords, knives, blunt weapons, projectiles. Back the other way are survival stations, the closest one teeming with ropes and nets. I notice I'm not the only one glancing around, though most of the others look nervous and jumpy. I spot Maria, the girl from Five and throw her a quick smile, though don't go over to her. I doubt the alliance would be interested.

I try to see if there _is_ anyone the alliance might be interested in taking, and end up watching the pair from District Ten, who are talking in low voices and glaring around the room. Up close the girl looks scrawny but strong, and she doesn't seem intimidated by the room full of weapons.

The boy, Tarris just looks angry. He's the nephew of one of their victors I remember. Might be worth approaching if he was alone, though if he's already working with the girl the pack won't want him.

As the last few pairs come in, I decide the only other people possibly worth considering are the girl from Eleven and the boy from Six, both bigger than me. She's solidly built and not very attractive. I add her to my list of people to try and charm. I doubt I'd end up allying with her, but if she likes me she'll be less likely to try and kill me if it comes to a fight in the arena. Distracting them with a flutter of my eyelashes seemed to help when I fought girls back home, anyway.

A young man leaning on one of the spears calls the room to attention and gives us the rules and information. Beside me Anita is already stretching, keen and eager to get started. The boy from One, Angelus mutters something to his district partner, who smothers a laugh. Across the arc of tributes listening to the head trainer Carla catches my eye and nods. As soon as Uriah finishes talking I head over towards our traditional allies, trying to look confident but not too cocky.

"I guess there's no objections," Angelus says as we meet in the open space. We all shrug and nod in confirmation. He flicks a quick glance my way, his lip curling slightly, and says "Why don't we go kick the runts off the weapons stations and show them how it's done."

That's how we spend the rest of the morning. I quickly discover that my new allies are just as well trained in a fight as I am. Marcellus is deadly with both a sword and a club and Carla is skilled with everything. Of all of us, she's the only one who's any good with the bow (technically we're not permitted to have bows in Four, even in the training school, and we almost never use them), though all of us can throw a spear straight.

Watching the knife-fighting, I decide that for all his bluster, Angelus is possibly the weakest of the alliance. He's still pretty good and I wouldn't want to pick a fight with him, but as long as I was armed with a spear I think I could take him. If I had a net as well, I'm certain I could beat him one on one.

Anita's probably on the weaker end too, though not from lack of training. She's just smaller than the rest of us, and it hurts her when a fight turns to wrestling. I guess the rest of them probably think I'm in the weak group as well, being only fourteen. I make sure to show enough skills with both spear and knives to keep them happy without giving up everything, like Mags suggested.

We eat lunch together, claiming first pick of the spread feast and joking loudly with one another. Gabriela said at breakfast that some intimidation of the other tributes is good, as it might make them hesitate at the Cornucopia. The dangerous ones are the ones who don't stop and think. It doesn't matter whether they run for the weapons or away into the wilds, they're still more likely to kill you than the ones who freeze up.

Our pack splits up for the afternoon now that we've sized each other up a bit, and I wander over to the rope station, where Maria from Five is trying to set up a snare. This makes me realize for all my skills with knots, I don't actually know anything about sourcing food on land and join her for the lesson. She seems genuinely happy that I'm talking to her and blushes when I pretend to tie her up in a bowline. Eventually I decide I have to move on and blow her a kiss farewell before moving on to shelter building. There's no other tributes around so I flirt a bit with the trainer, an angular faced woman in her twenties. She shows me a few different ways of setting up, from a tarp over a branch to a circular weave of branches. She also promises to tell her friends that I'm a 'lovely boy', since as Games staff, she isn't allowed to sponsor tributes herself.

I do first aid with the kids from Twelve, both around my age and kind of jumpy. The girl, Demmy calms down after a bit and starts chatting. The boy just stays quiet and shoots me suspicious looks out of the corner of his eye. I join back up with Anita and Citrine at the climbing wall, and we take turns racing up the false stone cliff. My ally from One is quiet too, though she's quicker than both of us when we swap over to climbing the large net. I feel a little ashamed, and judging by Anita's face so does she.

I wander around for a bit, looking for a chance to get some of the other potentially stronger tributes on side. Eventually I see an opportunity at the balance beams, where the big brawny girl from Eleven is wobbling badly. I catch her arm as she overbalances and help her land on the floor.

"Thanks," she mutters, pulling her arm free of my grip.

"No problem," I tell her with a smile. "That doesn't look easy."

She blinks, surprised maybe that I'm talking to her, and mutters, "Probably easier for you than me. People built like cows aren't much good at balancing."

The way she says it suggests it's a taunt she's heard before.

"At least you don't snap like a twig when someone hits you," I tell her, earning a small smile. "Anyway, cows are scary. At least they look scary on TV. I've never seen one for real."

This makes her laugh. "My aunt keeps two for milk. I had to help carry one last fall when she fell and hurt her leg. The cow, not my aunt."

I glance at her arms, which show plenty of corded muscle. "Now I really don't want to pick a fight with you. I've never met someone who carried a cow before."

She looks up hopefully. "Do you want to be allies?"

I smile as sweetly as I can and try to look disappointed. "I'm sorry, I've already promised to work with some of the others. I can ask if they want to let you join but you might be better off on your own."

She glances past me, and swallows a gulp. "Yeah. Yeah that might be better. You seem decent though, and if it doesn't work out with them maybe we can be...friends."

She blushes at the last. I put my hand out to her and she shakes it. "Sounds good," I say.

I reach up and haul myself onto the balance beam, wobbling slightly as I get up on my knees.

"Now you can watch me make an idiot of myself on this thing."

She laughs again as I struggle to my feet. It's not actually as easy as I thought it would be and I nearly fall off twice before jumping the last few feet to the mat at the end.

The head trainer calls the day to the end as I land and I wave goodbye to my new friend Rosemary—Rosie—and head up in the lifts with Anita and Citrine.

"That looked friendly," Anita comments with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, I have to share my charm around. If I only used it on you ladies I'd smother you," I reply.

Anita pretends to gag again. "Sickly sweet Odair," she says as Citrine hops out on the first floor. The glimpse I get through the door shows an apartment that looks exactly like ours. That makes me feel a little better.

"All sugar is good sugar," I tell her as we get out on our floor. We turn into the lounge room where Mags and Gabriela are waiting to discuss the day's working.

~xXx~

The second day of training goes much the same as the first. Marcellus, Angelus and me take turns lifting the heavy weights, seeing who can do the most. None of us are surprised that Marcellus wins, though Angelus and I go pound for pound until we both can't manage any more. He pouts about this for a bit, then goes over to the sword station and starts dueling the trainers. It's probably his best weapon.

I wander aimlessly for a bit, wishing that they had a pool, nodding briefly to both Maria and Rosie, who look busy at the plants and knife stations respectively. Finally I settle on the unarmed combat stop, where the girl from Six is struggling to get free of a headlock.

She eventually surrenders to the trainer and slumps down against the wall, tears running down her face. I wander over to her and she squeaks when she sees me. I put on my sweet smile, the one Oris says makes me look about ten years old, and say "Hey, you ok?"

She squeaks again and shakes her head, hugging herself tightly. "I'm going to die. I can't fight so I'm going to die."

I can't think of anything to say to this that will make her feel any better. You can sometimes go a fair way in the Games just with survival skills, but it almost always comes down to a fight in the end.

"Maybe you just need to be more sneaky than your opponents," I say doubtfully. She gives me an odd look.

"Why do you care? You're a volunteer. You probably like fighting. It's you and your friends that are going to kill me."

I shrug, not entirely sure why I'm talking to her myself. Unlike some of the others, she probably doesn't pose a threat.

"I'm not trying to kill anyone right now," I say. "Here."

I reach down to offer her a hand up. She hesitates, then starts to take it when a heavy weight slams me aside.

"You stay away from her."

Her district partner, the biggest tribute in the room glares at me as he helps her upright.

"I've seen you going around to all the girls," he says as she scurries away, wiping her face on her sleeve. "I don't like it. You stay away from her and the others too. They don't need you preying on them."

"I was just being friendly," I tell him, dropping my voice as low as I can.

"We aren't here to make friends," he replies, stepping forward so that he's looming over me. Rather than step back I jab a quick fist into his guts, forcing him away. He doubles over, slightly winded and glares. I check that none of the Gamemakers are watching too closely and lean in.

"Maybe you should be," I say softly and turn away, climbing into the unarmed combat ring. The trainer must have seen everything, but he doesn't say a word as he signals ready. He has long brown hair and hazel eyes, and for a minute I can pretend he's Oris and we're just play-wrestling at home.

~xXx~

Mags suggested I keep my fisherman's fighting back for my private session and spend the last morning of training watching the other tributes and looking for their strengths and weaknesses. I kill some time at the edible plants station, though even after an hour most of the leaves still look the same to me.

The boy from Eight, Markus doesn't seem to have this problem, and quickly sorts them under the approving eye of the trainer. Even little Demmy from Twelve seems to know more than me, and eventually I give up in disgust and decide to count on the Cornucopia bounty and sponsors for food.

Carla and Angelus are practicing spear throwing again, and I join in for a bit as it gives a good view of the knife fighting station. The boy from Six who threatened me yesterday is there giving his district partner some pointers. He sees me watching and makes a rude gesture. I reply by tossing my next spear at the target dummy's groin. Angelus smirks at this and lands his next throw just above it. The boy from Six apparently thinks better of saying anything.

I get bored after a while and do another round of the stations, watching the other tributes and looking for something interesting to keep me busy until lunch. Finally I see the least used weapons station, where they offer training in a range of exotic weapons, most of which are never at the Cornucopia.

I rummage through the collection, tossing aside star-shaped throwing knives, whips, bolas, and double-ended swords and axes until I see it. Piled behind some strangely weighted pole arms, a little short for my reach, but still more comfortable than the standard spears in my hand. I put the trident back where I'll be able to find it later and saunter over to the rope station to examine the available nets. It looks like I'll be able to show the Gamemakers the best of my fighting skills after all.

The final lunch is the noisiest yet, though we get quieter as each member of the alliance gets called out. I'm the second last of us to go, and start stretching as soon as little Eyjin from Three disappears.

"I expect a nine from you at least pretty boy," Anita says, mockingly imitating Angelus' pompous accent. "A ten would be better, an eleven outstanding."

I snort. "Angelus will be lucky to score a seven or eight. Oris could take him in a spear fight, I swear."

She shrugs. "He's better than either of us with a sword, and I wouldn't like him with a knife either. Seems the sort to stick it in your back while you're facing the other way."

"You don't trust him?" I ask, wondering if she wants to change the alliance at this late date.

"I trust him to play nice for a bit. I'm not going to mess anything up, but if anyone turns backstabber I'll bet it's him."

Most Games the alliance lasts until the end, or at least until they think it's the end to go melee. Every now and then someone decides to break it early though. Usually someone who thinks they would lose a fair fight.

"Finnick Odair."

I stand and head back in to the gymnasium, popping the top button of my shirt as I go. I walk to the middle of the floor and give them a quick bow. Like the last few days there's a feast laid out in front of them, but they stop paying attention to it once I'm center stage.

"Do you require any assistants?" Uriah asks from the corner.

"Yes please. Two or three would be good. Spear, sword and knife maybe."

He mutters into his arm-band while I hurry to the back corner and grab the trident I found earlier. I try a few quick jabs to find the best balance and jog back over to the nets for the two I set aside earlier.

By the time I make it back to the middle of the hall the trainers are waiting. I glance up to the balcony, where one of the female Gamemakers actually licks her lips in anticipation. Wincing internally, I decide it's still a good play and tug sharply on the front of my shirt, ripping it off.

Several of them sigh, not just women.

"Fighter up," I call, and the spear trainer steps forward to face me. He tries to catch my trident on his haft and twist it free of my hand. I roll with it and use the net in my other hand to tangle his feet. He stumbles and I jab forward, the trident prongs stopping with a thud in his throat-guard. I shove him aside.

"Next."

The sword trainer steps up, slashing the air between us daintily. I pin his blade in the trident prongs and twist to disarm him, kicking him in the chest and stabbing down, tines into his stomach guard.

The knife trainer actually puts up a bit of a fight. His weapon is blunted or I'd have been bleeding from my arm, but I finally get a good throw with the net and pin his arms so that my next stab connects easily.

He grins and gives me a small salute as he untangles himself. I bow again to the Gamemakers, several of whom are now talking softly to one another. "Thank-you mister Odair, you may go," says the head Gamemaker, Bellona Sykes.

Feeling pretty good I head upstairs and treat myself to a nice long shower before joining Mags in the lounge. She doesn't comment about my missing shirt and nudges a bowl of the candied nuts in my direction, which I forage from eagerly. She's knitting again, a blue jumper that will probably end up in the charity bin for the community home, like most of her projects. She's very careful to make 'mistakes' so that no-one can argue this.

"All good?" she asks. I nod. "Good. Get some rest. Watch TV. Take a nap. I'll sent Acanthus for you for dinner."

I don't think I feel tired, but when I go to my room and turn on the TV, the boring movie about a Capitol girl getting abandoned in the wilds of District Ten sends me right to sleep.

~xXx~

We all settle into the stiff and uncomfortable couches after dinner to see the training scores. The scores don't necessarily mean anything about a tribute's actual chances of winning, but for the alliance it's a useful guide of which outer district kids we should worry about first, if only for sponsors.

I figure I'll be in the upper scores, like the rest of the pack. Anita said she did fine, fighting off two of the knife trainers at once and throwing a few spears for good measure. She also spotted my discarded shirt that the trainers apparently forgot to remove and spent most of dinner needling me, asking if I really thought a strip-tease or seducing the Gamemakers would score me a perfect twelve.

I guess Gabriela didn't have the same conversation with her as Mags had with me about sponsors, since she's being far too light-hearted about it. I just laugh along and tell her she'll have to eat her words if I beat her score.

Angelus is the first up on screen, and as I predicted, only scores an 8. Even quiet Citrine beats him with a 9. Marcellus gets a 9 too, and Carla a 10. I'm not particularly surprised.

Scores of 5 and 3 for the District Three kids, and then it's my face staring out.

"The handsome young Finnick Odair shows us that age isn't everything with a score of...Nine."

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. The others definitely can't complain now. Anita scores an 8 and jokingly kneels and begs my humble pardon. I throw a cushion at her and go back to watching as Maria pops up with a 6.

The big, tough-talking boy from Six, Solphis Gunner is only rated a 6 too, and no-one scores higher until Markus from Eight pulls a 10. Anita and I stare at each other confused. I remember he was good at the plants station but I don't recall seeing him anywhere near any of the weapons. Definitely one to watch out for. Tarris Smith, Pelline Smith's nephew equals my score of 9, though he was only good with a knife from what I saw.

My 'friend' from Eleven Rosie Plane manages a respectable 7, and the boy from Twelve, Marlon Ridley makes the lowest score of the group with a 2.

"I imagine," Gabriela says pointedly as the commentators turn to a discussion of the bookmakers' odds, "That you will need to deal with the Weitz boy sooner than later. I would suggest trying to double-team him at the Cornucopia if possible. The Smith boy too, and his district partner. I believe they have a formal alliance, and will be popular with the Capitol audience. The sooner you take them out the better. Though I don't think we'll be lacking for sponsors."

"Especially if Finn here keeps ripping his shirt off," Anita adds and ducks away from my half-hearted swipe.

I look back to the TV where they have listed their top five tributes odds-wise. I'm rated third after Carla and Marcellus. Fourth is Markus from Eight, with Citrine in Fifth. As long as I can get my hands on a spear in the arena I'll change that.


	5. Chapter 5

My interview outfit perfectly matches the color of my eyes, as promised. Phineas spends an absurd amount of time shifting bits of my hair back and forth before declaring the effect perfect. When I look in the mirror, it looks to me no different from when I run a hand through it after waking up. The shirt is tight and partially unbuttoned in bright sea-green, with sea-shell buttons just like the ones on my 'cloak' in the parade.

The pants are too tight to do anything useful in, though I guess they'll survive an hour and a half on stage as long as I don't fidget too much. I'd hoped to wear my district token, back from approval by the Gamemakers, but Phineas complained that it was too 'busy' and would completely spoil the effect. He did find a necklace in suitable bronze with a similar crossed sword and spear icon to the pendant Torric gave me, set with a green gem. It looks silly to me, but since I asked for a necklace in the first place I can't really complain.

Anita wolf-whistles loudly as we meet at the elevator, though I'm not sure she can talk. Her dress is only held up by a thin strap over one shoulder and turns fairly see-through and flimsy well above her knees. In the heels she's as tall as I am, and takes my arm as we step into the lift.

"I feel like I'm about to turn my ankle in these bloody things," she whispers, wincing slightly as she wobbles a bit. "One or two inches I could deal with, but four?"

I grin at her and brace myself as she grabs my arm again. "I'd have thought a girl like you could handle four inches."

She raises both eyebrows and glares, though I can see her mouth twitching as she tries not to laugh.

"It's more than I bet you've got _pretty boy_ ," she replies as we step out, hurrying along the barricaded route to the backstage area. Harried looking production staff pull us into line with the other tributes, though I see we're not the last to arrive.

Maria blushes and waves, her swirling white dress fluttering with every movement. I nod back but don't try to talk to her. Her district partner, a nervous boy who so far has tried to stay out of everyone's way stares pointedly at the ground. Behind them Wheela and Solphis are talking softly. She looks like she's about to pass out.

The district Seven tributes aren't here yet. Neither, I notice when I look the other way are our allies from One. Several of the production staff are glancing at watches and having hurried discussions, gesturing to the empty places in the line. Eventually the kids from Seven show up, followed by Angelus who looks half annoyed, half amused.

Finally, nearly five minutes later, after much scurrying and short, sharp orders, Citrine arrives looking harried. As she passes I spot a strange ripple along her trailing dress. Off to the side her stylist and the head of the production crew are having a whispered argument. I catch "-stuck in the elevator door-" and realize what must have happened.

And since Citrine is up first, they couldn't just start and have us come on one at a time after. The anthem blares and we start the walk onto the stage, ushered along by the production crew. I watch carefully as Anita wobbles up the stairs in front of me, but she manages to get control once we get onto the stage and makes it to her seat without falling.

Caesar Flickerman, the host of the Games for as long as any of us can remember takes center stage. He gets the crowd going with his usual opening remarks, then calls up Citrine. I guess someone told him about her dress because he doesn't ask her to twirl around or show it off. Instead he asks her about her strategy. She replies quietly and confidently that she's a fighter and good at surviving anything the arena can throw at her. She tries to flirt with the crowd a bit, and with Caesar, but she's not really attractive and is lacking the confidence to get away with it. Angelus does a bit better, and gets a louder cheer, but all he ends up talking about is how ready and keen he is to kill.

Carla at least makes herself interesting, dodging the question of what exactly scored her a ten (I think she just put on a good fight) and talks a bit about what sort of arena she is looking forward to. Marcellus says that he's ready to do his district proud and to regain their honor after last year (the boy from Two was the first death at the bloodbath).

The girl from Three mumbles something about being cleverer than everyone thinks, though clever only matters if they get away from the bloodbath. The boy Joulian doesn't say anything about the arena, and talks instead about helping his family repair stuff. Both of them probably know they're not getting far.

Anita tries to get the crowd going a bit, especially when she jokes about me being like her kid-brother. It seems to make her popular with the young girls in the crowd anyway, who cheer louder when she finishes than when she was introduced.

She grins at me as she returns to her seat and gives a little nod. I grin back, especially when I hear Caesar Flickerman's announcement being completely drowned out by the screaming crowd.

I step forward, waving freely and take Caesar's offered hand, shaking it firmly. He pretends to wince a little as he pulls his fingers free.

"Finnick Odair. We've seen so much of your handsome face over the last six days, but now we finally get the chance to talk."

The crowd cheers again and I set my best grin and another lazy wave in their direction. "It's nice to know that the lovely people of the Capitol want to get to know me. I hope I live up to expectations."

Be a little brash, Mags said, but not too cocky.

"Well," Caesar says, "with a score of nine and muscles like that I don't think you will be disappointing anybody."

"I always do my best, and I always like to keep people happy."

This sets off another round of cheers and whistles that takes Caesar a little while to calm.

"So Finnick, a volunteer at fourteen. I've got to know, what inspired you?"

Mags said he would ask something like that and gave me several ways to answer. In my mind there was only one thing to be said though.

"Oris Martin has been my brother in all but blood since he was born. He's a great guy, but he's a little small and scrawny for the Games. Besides I sort of promised him I had him covered if his name was ever called. I'd look pretty silly if I hadn't and he didn't come back."

In truth I'd only ever joked about volunteering for him if it mattered, but when I had the time to think about it last night I realized I never would have done anything else. He is my family. Not just a fill-in for the people I lost nearly five years ago, but a real part of me. Same as Greta, same as Ric. Same as Mags even.

Caesar gives me a few easy casts after this. What do I hope to see in the arena? (Plenty of water so I can go swimming), do I already have a strategy? (Of course, but I wouldn't want to spoil anything), what do I think of my allies? (It's been fun getting to know a group of strong competitive people and I'm looking forward to our time together. Especially Anita, since she's been just like a big sister to me). After every reply the crowd whoops and whistles, and I start to wonder if I just said random words whether they still would go on cheering. I think they probably would.

The last question is very predictable, "Do you have anyone special back home?"

"Nope," I say cheerfully. "Maybe someday though, after I get back. I've never had a proper girlfriend before, it sounds like fun."

Probably a little too cocky, but the crowd cheers anyway and I blow a quick kiss as the buzzer sounds and walk back to my seat. As the rest of the interviews go on, I notice the camera often cutting back to me in-between tributes, and make sure I'm smiling and sitting confidently, not fidgeting. When the shirt starts to itch across my collarbone towards the end of Ashlyn Cumber's timid mutter I give in and pop the next button down, smoothing the green silk flat. Someone in the crowd whistles loudly and as soon as the girl from Seven is done I see my face on the screen again. My chest is visible nearly to the solar plexus, and I internally wince but force myself to stretch my arms up behind my head, crossing my feet as I casually lean back. More whistles and several nasty looks from the other tributes make me smile. I can't help it if the Capitol loves me. All I can do is use it to my best advantage.

I stop playing around when Markus Weitz from Eight steps up to the stage. He's around my height and build, and walks like an athlete, though I've never heard of anyone from District Eight training or volunteering. Maybe he just likes sports. It becomes quickly obvious that he doesn't much like attention. He mumbles a bit and gets his words tangled when he talks about his sisters, but finishes strong saying that he is prepared to do whatever it takes to get home to them. He doesn't give away any hints about what scored him a 10. I glance around to my allies as Markus returns to his seat, and catch Marcellus and Citrine's nods. We know who we'll be targeting at the Cornucopia.

The pair from District Ten will also be high on that list. Ida is angry and determined, Tarris is cool and collected, and definitely strong enough to make a go of things. He's not too bad looking either, though I'd guess from the nasty look I get as he sits back down that I've ruined any plans of sponsorship from that. Rosie from Eleven stammers a bit—she seemed shy when I spoke to her in training—but when she says she isn't afraid of fighting she sounds stronger.

The crowd seems to be getting bored though, and I can hear a low hiss of whispers from the surrounding stands even as Caesar thanks her and calls up her district partner. The last three tributes made almost no impact at all during the parades and training. Fishbait, I've heard some of the others at the training school call them. They'll be dead in the first few days, if not the first few minutes.

We all stand for the anthem then join the throng of people heading back to the Training Center. I end up in the same lift as Citrine and Angelus, who leave with a cheerful "see you tomorrow." Both of them look excited, and I realize I am a bit too. Not because I'm looking forward to fighting to the death, so much as that it all seems like an adventure. Something different to break the monotony of life.

When the doors close, I realize the tributes from Eleven are in as well, hidden behind two chatting stylists and an Escort with a shock of yellow hair and a high-pitched chirpy voice. They get out on the third floor, giving me a few seconds to smile and nod at Rosie Plane, who blushes but smiles back.

Mags is already waiting when I step inside the apartment. She sends me to clean off and to change into something more comfortable. I have another nice long soak in the shower, fiddling with the buttons to create all sorts of fun effects. As I'm being scrubbed with dark purple foam that smells fruity, I suddenly realize if things don't go well tomorrow this will be the last time I ever wash. It's a strange thought, and I dry off and slip on some silk shorts and head back out to the lounge, trying to keep my head away from that sort of thinking.

I hear the clack of knitting needles before I see her, and she looks up as I enter with a sad smile, as if she knew what I was thinking about minutes before. "Ready?" she asks.

I shrug. "As ready as I'll ever be," I reply. It's true.

She nods at the couch, and nudges a bowl of candy along the table.

"Try to get some sleep, but if it's not working, find something else to stay relaxed. Watch a show, sing a song. Tie knots in the spare belts in your wardrobe if you have to. Just try not to think or worry about tomorrow."

It's good advice. There's nothing else I can do now to make tomorrow any easier. The training is done, the alliance is organized. I won't know anything about the arena until I'm in it and I'll just have to go from there.

"I already have more sponsors for you than I've ever had for a tribute," Mags says abruptly. "If you do end up needing anything, I should be able to help. If you get injured, there are some fantastic medicines that are usually too expensive. If you get separated from the others for whatever reason I can supply you. It would be better if you could do it on your own, but I have your back Finnick."

She hesitates, both in talking and knitting, which makes me pay attention.

"You're as much a grandson to me as Oris is in my heart. I don't want to lose you any more than him, especially not from something stupid. Keep your head. Think about what you say and do. Don't let the Games control you. Don't make me go home and tell my daughter and grandson why I couldn't save you."

I push myself up and walk over, kneeling beside her chair, and wrap my arms around her. She hugs me back, and I tell her "You four are all the family I have left. Just because we're not related by blood doesn't mean I won't be trying my hardest to get back to you all. I can do this Mags. I'm not afraid."

She hugs me tighter, then pushes me gently away. "You're a good boy, Finnick. We'll be waiting for you on the other side. No matter what."

I grin at her and it doesn't feel too shaky. I'm not afraid, not really. If I die then I die, just like my parents. If I live, then I'll be able to repay some of the huge debt I owe to Greta and Ric. Even if I die, a part the debt will be repaid since Oris will still be alive. I hope he starts training seriously if I don't make it back. There's no reason why they won't reap him again in a few years time.

I wander back down to my room and sprawl on the bed, hoping for sleep, but not really surprised when it doesn't come. I try a few exercises, but that just makes me even more awake. The TV is showing recaps of the interviews, with expert analysis on which of us has the best attitude and underlying strength to make it to victory. According to one woman, my beautiful features hide a gentle soul and I won't have the strength to kill. Another claims that beauty is only a mask and that at heart I'm a vicious killer who can't wait to take apart the other tributes. She seems way too eager about this and I turn it off as she starts another rant.

Finally I turn to the wardrobe for entertainment, sifting through the contents until I find a cord belt. It's too thick to tie proper knots, but it's better than nothing and I lie back on the bed, eyes closed, and think of home while my fingers shape familiar forms.

~xXx~

The belt is still in my hands when Phineas wakes me. He tosses me a plain white shirt and shorts, which I quickly slip on, and beckons me to follow him to the lifts. We get out on the twelfth floor and take the stairs to the roof. A hovercraft is already waiting. I start climbing the ladder and gasp when I find my body immobilized. I'm reeled in like a fish caught in a net, and a man at the top greets me with a smile as he jabs something into my arm.

"Just placing your tracker Finnick. We don't want to lose your handsome self in the arena."

Of course. As soon as it's in the tingling releases and I roll aside, checking instinctively for any damage. Everything seems to be working fine; I doubt they would do anything likely to harm the tributes in the hours before the Games begin.

Phineas is brought up and we follow the smell of breakfast into the next room. I tuck in, trying to get as much energy stored as I can while my mentor watches out the windows. Early light trickles out from the direction we came, suggesting we are headed west towards the coast. I hope it means a water or island-based arena. There hasn't been one since Wade's Games five years back.

The sky is fully light and I can see a glimpse of the ocean way off in the distance when the windows suddenly black out. I guess they don't want any of us getting an advantage. I start stretching, loosening my muscles and working out the slight twinge in my neck. This was one of the first things we learned at training; we can do as much damage to ourselves as anyone else we are fighting. Phineas watches, looking somewhat bemused, but doesn't say anything.

Finally the hovercraft slows and the ladder lowers directly into the Launch Rooms below the arena. I do get at least one more shower before changing into the clothes provided. Plain comfortable underwear, brown shorts with pockets, a thin but strong black synthetic belt, a thin gray sleeveless vest that buttons up the front. All lightweight material that should dry quickly. My hopes for a tropical island soar. The shoes are sturdy sandals with buckled straps that wrap across the top of my feet and above my ankles. Not quite as easy to run in as bare feet, but better for walking on sharp rocks. Little bleeding cuts might mean a whole lot more out here where it's life and death.

I tie on my district token, ignoring Phineas' derisive sniff and go through a few more exercise routines, getting used to the clothes and shoes. There's some simple food available, but I don't want to eat now right before I'll have to fight. I do have some water though. If it's going to be hot, hydration will matter. It should be fine for us since we'll have the majority of the supplies at the Cornucopia, but I'd rather not risk it.

After what feels like hours the call finally comes to prepare for launch. Phineas holds out his hand to shake and says "I do hope you win. I could make entire fashion lines based on just the color of your eyes."

"I'll do my best," I say, barely refraining from rolling my eyes at his self-centered interest.

I step into the tube and wince slightly as the glass cylinder lowers, sealing me in. I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears, and belying my claims of not being nervous. It's just like riding out a storm or leaping from the cliff near the Victor's Village into the water below, I tell myself. Adrenaline. A little bit of fear and anticipation is good.

The tube seals and starts to rise, and after a few seconds of uncomfortable darkness there is a blinding flash of light and the wonderfully familiar scent of salt water.


	6. Chapter 6

My eyes adjust to the bright morning sunshine as the platform settles into place and I feel the sea breeze ruffle my hair. To my right there is clear land across a few hundred yards leading to what looks like sharp cliff drop off similar to home. Beyond that I can see a bit of the water sparkling and dancing invitingly. Looking straight ahead past the Cornucopia the trees rise up in a wide arc all the way to the stream off to my right. A quick glance over my shoulder shows more clear land all the way to the lake, with more trees beyond. Far in the distance that way I can see large rocky cliffs that suggest this isn't an island, but a finger of land.

I check the tributes to either side of me: Demmy from Twelve and the boy from Three to my right, the girl from Seven and big Solphis Gunner past her on my left. I can see Citrine around that way next, and a few down Marcellus. Plenty of allies to watch my back. The ground in front is littered with supplies that grow in value closer to the Cornucopia. There's a knife about half-way between me and the horn that I'll have to grab just to deny anyone else. Leaning on the side of the horn are a pair of spears that look my length. My second target. I set my feet as the seconds count down and spring forwards as soon as the gong rings, letting the rush of adrenaline drive me faster.

I slow for a step to snatch the knife by the handle, then keep sprinting until I get to the spears, well ahead of anyone else around me. I toss the knife at my feet and grab my preferred weapon, turning to face out towards the rush of people, heart pounding.

I'd thought occasionally what it would be like to kill someone, usually after a particularly ferocious sparring match at training, wondering if it would feel any different to clubbing dead a fish, or spearing a skate in the shallows. Whether I would hesitate to strike a final blow knowing that my opponent was a live, thinking person not a dumb animal, or whether it would all happen on instinct.

It turns out to be quite easy when the alternative is my own death. Solphis Gunner, who seemed to dislike me during training, rushes at me holding a simple wooden club. I duck away from his blow, striking out with the spear and feel the edge slice cleanly across his side. He turns with a yell and swings again, and I reach up instinctively to catch the downswing of his arm on mine and ram the spear home through his neck. He makes a funny gulping moan and drops to his knees, slicing the palms of his hands as he tries to pull the sharp metal from his throat. I turn away as he topples forward into a pool of his own blood, bright red against the sandy soil and grab up the other spear to face anyone else that might challenge me.

Already I can see a lot of the fighting is done. At least two small figures are retreating at a run, heading past the lake that was behind me. To the left I can see the crumpled figure of the girl from Seven who was next to me; further around Marcellus is sparring easily with the scrawny boy from Eleven, turning away the knife stabs with little effort, his sword already bloody.

Seeing no more tributes this way I head around towards the mouth of the Cornucopia where there is more action. The boy from Twelve is screaming near a pile of tents, his right leg nearly off at the knee. Angelus shuts him up with a quick slash across the throat, ignoring the spray of blood that speckles his face.

Out further that way I see Maria, the friendly girl from Five scrambling to gather up an armful of supplies that she must have dropped. Before I can move Anita sprints towards her and runs her through with a single spear thrust. Maria convulses twice and hits the ground, the spear standing out of her back like a raised mast. Carla appears from further around, her sword bloody too, and Marcellus joins us as well looking amused.

"Little brat put up a fight," he says. "So two for me. You?"

"Two," Carla replies shortly. "Girl from Three, I didn't catch her name. And the twelve-year-old from Seven. Little runt tried to sneak up on me and knife me while I was busy with the girl," she adds defensively. From training I know that they prefer to take on the tougher targets at the bloodbath. More of a challenge.

"I got Twelve. The boy," Angelus says, pointing to the body nearby. "And we all saw you deal with Five. What about you pretty boy, did you get your hands dirty or did you just stand around gaping while we did all the work?"

Since I grabbed the other spear my weapon looks clean, and there's surprisingly little blood spatter on my front. "Boy from Six," I say as casually as possible. "I left my other spear in him."

Angelus scowls but Anita gives me a clap on the shoulder. Carla glances around and asks, "Where's Citrine?"

"I saw her around my way," I say, and we all hurry to the tail of the Cornucopia, where we find her groggily trying to stand. The right side of her face is already swelling and a cut above her ear is bleeding freely.

"District Ten," she says, slurring slightly around her swollen face. "Double teamed me. I turned to hit the boy and the girl whacked me with a club."

She winces as she tries to step forwards and raises the hem of her shorts to show a long, shallow gash along the side of her thigh. "Then he knifed me."

Carla grabs her arm to steady her and I take the other side. "There'll be something in the Cornucopia for that," Carla says. "After that, first priority. Ten dies. Slowly."

Citrine smiles weakly at that and leans on us both as she hobbles around to treat her wounds. I feel like we should be doing something more proactive, but I don't really want to speak up in case the others feel like I'm gloating for taking down the biggest target in the bloodbath. Marcellus saves me the effort by clearing his throat and announcing, "Ok once Citrine is settled let's start gathering up supplies. She can start sorting. We'll give it a few hours then start out south-west."

Angelus pouts again at being told what to do, but doesn't argue as we start collecting the spoils of our battle and preparing for war.

~xXx~

The anthem plays as we break through the trees to find a wide, sandy beach. We all pause to look up and confirm the count from before: girl from Three, girl from Five, boy from Six, both from Seven, girl from Nine and boys from Eleven and Twelve. None of us saw who got the girl from Nine, though I'd guess it was either Markus or the pair from Ten. Either way, the count is eight dead, a third of the field. A little low, but the arena isn't so big that we can't track them down.

We keep hiking down towards the sand, keeping a look out for any signs of passing tributes. Each of us has a light pack of supplies in case of emergency, but the plan at least for the first few days is to do loops out and back from the Cornucopia, staying in easy reach of our haul. We'll take turns guarding—Citrine has first watch since she wanted time to let her cuts close over—and see how many we can take out who are silly enough to stay close by.

I pause on the edge of the beach, fighting the urge to toss my backpack and clothes and dive straight into the welcoming waves. I can only imagine the reactions of the others if I ask to stop and paddle for a bit, and even suggesting trying some fishing will probably get me laughed at. Right now we have no shortage of food.

I content myself with a few deep breaths and a long look before following the rest as they keep on heading south down the grassy plain between the trees and the sand.

"See something?" Carla asks as I catch up.

"Fisherman's habit," I reply. "Checking the weather and the slope of the beach."

Angelus snorts. "Afraid of a little rain?" he asks derisively. "Scared of a bit of thunder and lightning?"

Anita, who knows a bit of my history grabs my arm before I can take a swing at him.

"You inland folks don't know what a coastal storm is like," she says bluntly. "I hope for all our sakes that you don't get to find out."

I pull free of her hold and shoot Angelus a quick glare. "Sky looks clear, at least for now."

We keep walking.

Marcellus turns us back a few hours after sunset. We cut back through the trees, the waxing moon bright enough through the branches to use as a guide. It's not quite bright enough to prevent Carla, in the lead, from tripping and falling neck-deep into a stream. She splutters and gasps as Anita and I haul her out, but ends up laughing with the rest of us on the bank.

She confirms what I thought about the clothes when they dry out within an hour, and by about two in the morning we are back at the Cornucopia. Citrine uncurls herself from a comfortable pile of sleeping bags to say all was quiet while we were gone.

"I'll take first watch," Carla says ruefully, scraping some dried mud off the hem of her vest. "I'm still feeling pretty alert after my swim. I'll wake next in an hour."

I grab a sleeping bag and drag it on to a relatively flat bit of ground, tossing away a couple of small rocks. All the nervous energy that I started the day with seems to have faded, especially after the long hike, and I fall quickly and easily asleep dreaming of the moonlit ocean.

~xXx~

Something prods me in the ribs hard, and I instinctively grab it and twist, trying to pull whatever is at the other end to the ground. A male voice that is too deep to be Oris yelps and I come quickly alert.

Angelus glares at me, rubbing his hands where he tried to hang on to the spear haft he was poking me with. "Your watch pretty boy. Try not to fall asleep. Wake Marcellus when you're done. He's last."

I sit up, rubbing sleep out of my eyes as Angelus saunters off back to his bedroll. Yawning and stretching, I use my reclaimed spear to stand, wincing slightly at the ache in my legs. I'm fairly fit, but not used to running as far as we did last night in one go. I guess I'll have to get used to it.

I grab an apple out of our supply pile and munch on it while I watch the sun rise. It's bright and clear, but not quite the same as at home. Not quite as beautiful. There's no sign of red clouds either, which means we're clear from any storms at least until afternoon. The wind is faint and from the north-east, a whisper that tickles my hair. Perfect fishing weather.

Probably perfect hunting weather too. I spend my hour's watch working loose the knots in my legs and shoulders while seabirds fly overhead. Nothing else moves as the arena slowly comes to life. When I wake Marcellus, I'm not at all tired, and decide to wander over to the lake to refill a few of our water bottles.

I have my spear in hand, and strike out of habit when I see a fish just below the water's surface. It's about the size of my hand, with a zig-zag of red-gold and bronze scales and wickedly sharp teeth, though juicy enough looking for breakfast. I decide not to go swimming in any of the waterways I come across though. I've heard stories about flesh-eating fish that swarm a person and tear them to shreds. Even if they don't actually exist normally, it's exactly the sort of thing the Gamemakers would create.

Marcellus suggests not eating it when I get back, on the off-chance that it's poisonous. I pout jokingly and he reaches over to pat my head. "Wear it on that necklace of yours if it means so much to you."

I stick my tongue out at him and grab my share of the breakfast he has set out—dried crackers, some jerky, an energy bar and an apple each—and start eating. He does the same, watching off into the distance in each direction for a few minutes between mouthfuls.

As I finish the last of my allotted food he goes very still. "Wake the girls," he says softly, his eyes on a point to the south east. I follow his gaze and see a few whisps of morning fog. Except morning fog usually sits in a layer not a column, and isn't normally so gray.

I shake Anita, Carla and Citrine awake then repay Angelus by prodding him with the spear-butt, stepping away faster when he wakes so that he misses his grab. He glares at me until I point to the distant column of smoke. Without another word he rolls to his feet and grabs his sword.

"Who is staying?" he asks Marcellus once we are all standing. The boy from Two looks around the group, then nods at Citrine. "One more day?" he asks her and she nods resignedly.

The medicine from the first-aid kit seems to have sealed over the cuts but she is still limping slightly and her right eye is swollen half-shut. The rest of us load up with our small packs and weapons and head out and a gentle run.

I'm starting to wear out when Marcellus signals a halt. I try to stop from gasping too loudly as I catch my breath. Beside me Anita looks just as worn, worse even since she's smaller and had to run faster to keep up. We lost sight of the smoke as soon as we entered the trees, but I'm pretty sure we're still headed in the right direction. So is Marcellus, who appears to have appointed himself our leader, as he calls us all over to a huddle.

"I'd make it another two hundred yards to the fire. Now, there's no guarantee that whoever lit it is still there, so we are going to spread out. Angelus you take the left, Anita the right. Carla, you take little Finn here and go around the back. I'll give it twenty minutes and call the charge. Got it?"

We all nod and Carla and I hurry back through the trees, trying not to step on anything noisy as we make our way roughly around behind where our target should be. After a quarter hour she stops me and points me towards the right direction.

"I'll go a bit further round. Don't get lost."

I scowl a little at her babying, but let it go. It's not as annoying as Angelus trying to push me around.

While I wait, I check my legs and arms for leeches, another habit picked up living on the coast, and find one small one on the back of my calf. It's barely started gorging, so I just flick it off, stopping the blood with my finger until it clots. I'm still sitting down when I hear Marcellus yell and have to scramble to my feet, charging in towards the suspected camp site.

To my left I hear a terrified scream and I reach a small clearing in time to see Carla casually cutting down the boy from Nine as he runs before her. She quickly sticks her sword through his ribs to make sure of it and we immediately hear the answering cannon.

The small fire is still smoldering slightly, what looks like a rat skewered on a stick cooking above it. I guess the boy was so excited about catching something he could cook and eat that he forgot the fire would lead us to him. Angelus prods through his pack, a small satchel holding a box of matches, some wire and a flashlight.

He pockets the last and tosses the rest onto the fire, where it slowly catches and burns. We watch it for a minute, then Marcellus signals for us to start travelling and we begin the run back towards the Cornucopia.

~xXx~

Marcellus decides that it's my turn to stay back on guard while the rest of them go out in the afternoon. I'm fine with this, and build myself a comfortable pile to sit in the mouth of the Cornucopia while I wait. The others head off, leaving me in the sudden strange silence of loneliness.

It makes me wonder what it must be like to be one of the non-alliance tributes. After an hour by myself I'm already starting to feel a little anxious. There is no-one watching my back. If another tribute decides to come raid our supplies then unless I hear or see them they might kill me.

While I'm confident that I could take on most tributes one-on-one, even if they got the jump on me, I'm not so sure about Markus from Eight, or the pair from Ten. Then again, Citrine has sat here alone much longer than I have with half her vision gone and she was fine. If I say anything, then the others will treat me even more like a kid. Or worse, they'll decide I'm an inconvenience and take me out. I have to suffer in silence and keep myself alert.

As soon as I feel my mind start to wander off into distant thoughts I make myself get up and practice a spear or knife routine. As the sun starts to drop below the water out to the west I fix myself up dinner from the food crates. It's bland compared to what I was eating in the Capitol, and I pull a face as I force down another dry cracker, wishing I had some of the juicy roast meats or sweet deserts that were on offer in the Training Center.

Almost as if I'd spoken out loud a silver parachute drops in front of me carrying a small bag of candied nuts. I grin at the sky. No matter how alone I feel someone _does_ have my back.

I eat them slowly, making them last as the night sets in. I still get up to exercise a few times an hour so that I'll be ready to answer any surprise attacks. It also helps keep my head clear of unpleasant thoughts.

It's why I started training after all; it gave me something to do to keep my mind off reliving that awful storm and the deaths of my family. Now in addition my thoughts start wandering to the dead tributes in these Games. At the time I felt nothing from killing Solphis except relief at still being alive and a sort of burning thrill at having won the fight. As I think back now, I can feel the scrape of my spear-head hitting his spine, can see the fear and pain in his eyes as he claws at the metal, only hurting himself worse. A part of my brain asks _what right did you have to kill that boy?_

My immediate answer is that he was trying to kill me, and he _was_. So what is my excuse for the others? Friendly Maria who was brave enough to talk to me at the parade, and who giggled when I tied her up in training. I didn't flinch when my ally stuck a spear through her back. What about the boy from Nine? He wasn't trying to kill any of us. He was just trying to survive.

It makes me wonder whether my allies feel the same way. Angelus and Marcellus seem to find the killing amusing, and Carla already has three dead to her name. Clearly it doesn't bother any of them. But what about Anita? She's only ever been friendly to me, but she didn't hesitate at all to kill an unarmed girl. Will she do the same to me when the time comes?

I make myself get up and start another spear routine, stabbing high and low, twisting and cutting, imagining that the only things in my path are lifeless, faceless dummies. As I finish I catch a glimpse of movement in the trees near the cliff. I duck down low and settle behind a pile of crates.

If it's some sort of animal or muttation I'll have to fight it alone, though I doubt the Gamemakers would send anything nasty on the second day, especially since we are making an effort to keep things moving. More likely it's another tribute who has come to see if they can steal from out supplies. If they are alone and saw me flashing my spear around they probably won't try anything, but if it's the pair from Ten, who have a formal alliance together, I might be in trouble.

I don't know how long I sit waiting, my senses on full alert, thoughts trained only on being prepared for a sudden attack from any direction. Because of that I hear the distant footsteps from the north before I see the beam of light that marks the pack's return. If there was anyone hiding out, they'll have gone now that all six of us are back.

"No luck?" I ask, standing as they jog in to our camp, though I already know the answer from the lack of cannons.

Anita shakes her head no as she leans forward, hands on knees, trying to catch her breath from the long run. Marcellus coughs and spits, then clarifies, "We found a bit of gray cloth, probably torn of someone's vest about a mile out, but for all we know they left it fleeing the Cornucopia. Might be worth another sweep up that way tomorrow."

"Sounds good," I say, reaching for my sleeping bag. Already I can feel myself relaxing in their company. If someone attacks now I won't be our front line.

"Get some sleep," Marcellus says to all of us. "I'll take first watch. Whoever is last get everyone up at sunrise. We'll hunt early."

No one argues and I'm asleep as soon as I'm wrapped up.


	7. Chapter 7

Anita sits out our morning hunt. Marcellus leads us north-east past the lake and across the plains. I decided not to mention the movement I saw in the trees up to the north since Marcellus already had his mind set on heading this way, and I didn't want any comments about the little baby jumping at shadows in the dark.

He shows me where they found the gray scrap of cloth snagged on a thorny bush, and instead of following the easiest path like they did last night we spread out in a circle looking for any signs of passing. After twenty minutes or so I have nothing but some nasty scratches down my bare legs and an itch across my shoulders from bug bites and turn back in disgust.

Marcellus and Citrine are already waiting, my ally from One scratching an even worse collection of bites than my own. Carla joins us soon after shaking her head. Marcellus glares at the surrounding trees and snarls, "Where the hell is he. The day is getting on."

"Right here," Angelus replies, stepping out from a thick clump of bushes. He grins like a shark as he holds up another scrap of cloth, this time brown.

Marcellus snatches it and has a quick look before tossing it to his district partner. "How far?"

"About half a mile, though it's pretty thick. We'd be better going around."

The two glare at each other for a few seconds, then Marcellus backs off with a shrug.

"Fine, lead away."

Angelus' grin widens as he takes us off at an easy jog. It's a lot harder to run through the thick scrub, with sudden dips and ankle-tangling vines and tree-roots trying to trip me at every step, but I manage not to fall.

"Mind the stream" Angelus announces pointedly as he veers around a fallen tree and jumps to the first stone in the water. Five easy leaps and he's across. Citrine follows, wobbling slightly half-way, her foot dipping in to the gently running water.

"-just one good punch in the mouth-" I hear Carla mutter as she goes next, dancing across the rocks effortlessly. I've been climbing sea-rocks as long as I can remember, so I have no trouble either. Of course I've seen what sort of flesh-eating fishies these waters hold and with my leg bleeding already I don't want to give them any ideas.

Marcellus comes last, landing heavily and wincing slightly as his ankle turns. He shakes it out and waves Angelus on.

We don't go far before he stops us, pointing to another of the bushes that scratched me up.

"Right here."

While Marcellus and Citrine kneel to examine the bush Carla wanders a brief circle around. She gestures us over after a few seconds and points out a broken branch and, further along a stepped on fern. This time we don't bother with clever plans or splitting up and surrounding. Carla and Angelus lead us at as quick a run as we can manage and soon enough we reach another bend of the stream and a rough tent of branches.

No sign of any tributes though. Marcellus gestures for us to spread out and search. I head down along the stream, poking about with my spear trying to uncover any footprints in the mud. As I bend down to double check a clump of dirt a flicker of movement catches my eye up in one of the nearby trees.

I stand slowly, sliding my hand down to the balance point of my spear and turning slightly so that I can be sure of my target. I could just call out, but I think this will impress my allies more. I turn quickly and throw and am rewarded with a sharp scream and a cracking of branches, followed by a soft thud as the figure hits the ground hard.

My spear pierced her leg just above the knee and she grabs at it once before giving it up as a bad job and tries to crawl away on her stomach. She doesn't get far. Angelus rushes in, sword drawn and slashes across her back, drawing another agonized cry as a thin red band appears through the tattered gray vest. The girl looks up, twisting around so that I can see her face. It's Wheela from Six, and I can hear the exact words she said to me in the Training Centre a few days back: _What do you care, it's you and your friends that are going to kill me._

I didn't really think about it at the time, but what chance did she ever have? I could have left her be when I saw her up the tree. Maybe one of the others would have seen her, maybe not. Of course it's pointless to think that way since everyone else in here will need to die if I'm coming out alive. I've tried not to think much about that either.

I don't move when Angelus cuts her again, crossing his first line down her back. He looks like he could keep going with this for a while. To my surprise Marcellus steps in.

"Come on One, we don't have all day."

Angelus sneers at him, but sticks the point of his sword through the back of little Wheela's ribcage. It doesn't take long for the cannon to fire. I avoid looking at her face as I pull free my spear before the hovercraft comes. The others are busy searching her tiny camp for anything useful. Angelus wipes his sword blade clean on the bottom of her shorts and stands.

"Shall we?" he asks pointedly, gesturing with the blade back towards our camp.

"Move out," Marcellus confirms, taking back command. The rest of us fall in behind for the long run home.

~xXx~

Our dinner is more bland dry food, and I notice I'm not the only one pulling a face at it. All my years of eating seafood means a week without it leaves me craving that rich, salty flavor and I decide if I get left guarding our supplies again I'll do some fishing for myself. I might even share what I catch with Anita. Carla slices up the last two apples and shares the pieces around as dessert. After nearly three days in the warm weather they are dry and powdery.

I force it down anyway—you'd be stupid to refuse any food in the Hunger Games—and sigh. Marcellus rolls his eyes at me then grimaces as his stomach rumbles loud enough for the hidden microphones to hear. "Maybe the next lot we find will have something decent to eat," he says with a rueful smile.

Not even five minutes later the parachute lands at my feet. A basket full of hot bread rolls, rippled green with seaweed and topped with salt. They are stuffed with smoked fish, fresh vegetables and my favorite spicy sauce. A bundle of warm choc-chip cookies like the ones Mags sometimes bakes quickly follows.

I cheerfully share them out with the group, though Angelus takes one bite of a roll and gags at the taste. Anita takes a massive bite out of her own roll to stifle her laughter. I look up to the sky and give a huge smile as I lick the last of the sauce off my fingers. Then blow Mags a kiss for good measure as I devour my cookies. Everyone else can assume it was meant for them, but I'm sure she'll know better.

The anthem plays and shows just little Wheela from Six in the night sky. It's been a slow Games since the bloodbath, and I start to wonder what the Gamemakers might do to speed it up if the Capitol audience starts getting bored. Hopefully they wouldn't target us since we're active players, though maybe if we keep hugging the Cornucopia rather than going out and tracking down the stronger tributes they might try and push us with something.

I guess the others are thinking it too, when Marcellus who seems to have appointed himself our unofficial leader announces, "Tomorrow morning I'll sit out the hunt. You five do one last sweep directly south. Three hours each way unless you find something. I'll sort our supplies out and we'll head out at sunset."

"Which way?" Carla asks, not arguing about Marcellus taking charge at all.

"North, then over north-east." He replies, cutting over Angelus as the boy from One opens his mouth, probably to argue. "I know I saw a few running that way and we haven't heard anyone else dying off yet."

He's probably right. I know better than to argue. Anita and Citrine seem happy enough with the plan as well, though Angelus starts pouting and announces he's going to sleep early. As soon as he's curled up in his sleeping bag Anita says, "So we're waking him for first watch in an hour or two, right?"

We all laugh, and when Angelus' grumpy face appears back out along with a rude gesture we laugh even harder. This leads into a series of jokes about who should take which watch, including plenty of comments about Carla sleeping with her eyes open, Citrine desperately needing her beauty sleep and me as the baby of the group needing a proper rest.

"I'll even tuck you in and sing you a lullaby," Anita offers as the others snigger loudly.

"You'll get a nice tasty knuckle sandwich if you try," I tell her, but I keep smiling. Make sure they and everyone else can see I can take a joke.

"I know a good lullaby my Grandpa taught me," Marcellus chips in. "It was go to sleep or I'll whack you over the head with my mallet."

"If you lot don't shut up, I'll put you to sleep with my sword." Angelus calls out, and while we all laugh once more, it seems like a cue to all start resting.

"I'll take first," Citrine says softly. "After that we go One-Two-Four, girls first?" No-one argues, especially not me since it means I get the best shift. As I adjust my bedding I realize that this was one thing I didn't count on: making friends in the arena. I've always enjoyed a bit of a laugh, and in different circumstances I could probably be friends with most of my allies, Angelus excluded. I wonder silently if that is why the boy from One distances himself from the group with his haughty arrogance. No risk of hesitating to strike a friend when you don't have any. Or maybe he's just an ass who really believes he's better than the rest of us.

I don't remember drifting off to sleep but I jolt awake at the touch on my shoulder, reaching blindly for my spear haft. My hand finds a sandal-clad foot instead and I blink blearily up at Marcellus in the early false dawn light.

"Wake us when the sun's all the way up," he whispers. He hesitates for a second, then adds, "I thought I saw something move in the trees up that way."

He points to where I heard the rustling the other night. It might be a stealthy tribute checking to see if we are leaving the supplies unguarded. Or maybe it's just an animal moving about. No point making a big deal about it.

"I'll keep an eye out," I say as I stand and stretch. I go through another set of spear routines in the hope it will scare off any potential tributes who are watching. As the sun slowly creeps above the horizon I see no movement and hear nothing unusual. I'm about to get up and wake the others when a fluttering sound catches my attention from above. Another parachute nearly lands on my head and I catch the small basket attached. I don't even need to open it to smell the cinnamon rolls.

"Thanks Mags!" I say, grinning at the sky. Mags is too experienced a mentor to send unnecessary food gifts unless she really can afford to. I take this as a sign that she has more than enough sponsors in case of emergency, and decide to enjoy the good food while it's still affordable for her to send.

I guess it also sends a message to the others in the alliance that I'm worth keeping no matter how much they joke about me being the baby of the group, because I may be the only one whose mentor can fund something we might need later on.

I wake the others by dropping a cinnamon roll on their heads. Angelus snarls at me and snatches it up to throw back before he realizes what it is and glares as he eats the smushed pastry off his fingers. I very deliberately lick the last of the sugar off my own hands, and lick my lips to catch any left in the corners of my mouth.

"Remember," Marcellus says as we ready our day packs and weapons, "South for three hours unless you find something interesting in the mean time. No later. I'll have what we need to take packed and ready when you get back."

As we start to jog out a booming cannon from the north makes us all pause.

"Let's just do the sweep south anyway," Carla suggests. "We'll be going up that way soon enough."

After an hour of jogging we pause to catch our breath on the edge of the deeper forest. Our path until now has only been grassy meadows dotted with thin clumps of trees, easy for running. Now we're forced to slow down and keep a watch out around us, both for tributes possibly lurking behind trees or even traps they might have set. I'd hate to be the tribute who is remembered for dying in some kid's snare or pit-trap.

Climbing over fallen trees and around thorny scrubs, we eventually reach a clearing and another stream. There's no obvious ford in sight so Anita leads the way across using her spear-haft as a depth tester. A third of the way over she's no deeper than her waist so the rest of us move to follow.

About half-way across quiet Citrine swears loudly and twists sideways.

"Something just touched my leg," she says, peering into the murky swirl around her, clouded from the mud she kicked up.

"Probably just a weed. Get over it," Angelus snaps. Then he yelps and stumbles.

"I...er...kicked a sharp rock," he says quickly.

"Are you bleeding," I ask, thinking back to the sharp-toothed fish I speared in the lake.

He sneers back at me. "I can handle a little cut _pretty boy_."

I don't say anything more. It's not my problem if the fish bite his leg off.

When I feel the brush against my own bare shin I try not to react. Most predator fish go after movement. I doubt these mutts, assuming that's what they are, will be any different. Because I'm not churning up the rocks and mud from the bottom of the stream I see the flicker of movement as the fish slides past again. I'm debating whether to try spearing it, or whether that might set any others off on the attack when Citrine in front of me stumbles and falls.

I hurry forwards to help her up by her shoulders. She gasps and splutters and holds out her hands, bright red and bleeding freely from cuts from the rocky bed. As if in slow motion I see the ripples on the water's surface where the blood drops hit, and the underwater flurry of motion directly below, one, two, five, twenty scaled bodies, rippling and twisting.

"Move, quick!" I yell as Citrine yells in pain.

"Something bit me," she shrieks as a cloud of red around her leg is split by a ripple of gold and bronze scales.

"Run!" I tell her and strike down with my spear, grinning as I feel the dull thud and wriggling weight that marks a successful catch. Then one of them bites me on the ankle, and another just below the knee and I decide getting out of the water is a better plan than trying to spear them all.

There's a few more sharp pains in my legs as I slosh rapidly through the water, though I can't tell if they are fish teeth or jagged rocks. About twenty feet from the other side I miss my footing and drop off into deeper water. It's actually faster for me to swim to the bank and I make it there before Citrine does, and use my spear-haft to hook onto a handy tree-root to climb out over the muddy edge. I notice with some amusement that there's still two fish stuck on the end of the point.

Anita glances at them as she comes over to give me a hand up.

"They eat me, I eat them," I tell her with a grin. She rolls her eyes, but gives me a small smile.

My head spins slightly when I stand. I'm bleeding from at least four places, though none of them look serious. Citrine is much worse off than I am, with around a dozen wounds on her legs and feet as well as the ripped hands. She also dropped her sword when she fell; none of us are willing to go back in and look for it. Carla also lost her spare knife and Angelus is bleeding from a few places and limping slightly on his left foot. Anita, who was well out in the lead is the only one uninjured. I imagine right now we must look pretty stupid.

Anita takes guard as the rest of us sit along the bank and try to clean up. Luckily I decided to throw a few first aid supplies in my day pack and smear all my scrapes and bites with a disinfectant cream before bandaging the larger ones. Carla has bandages as well but the pair from One apparently didn't think to bring any. I toss Citrine my cream and grab some bank moss and reed-grass for her hands. Not as good or as pretty as proper bandages but better than bleeding out. She can fix them up proper once we get back.

By the time we're done our clothes have dried out and the sun is getting higher.

"Let's head upstream until we find a proper ford," Carla suggests, wincing as she stands. We trudge on, a much quieter and probably humbler group as we follow the winding water. I hope that none of our stronger opponents are down this way. If the pair from Ten attacked now and got the jump, they might just beat us. After twenty minutes we reach a ford of sorts, a row of rocks to jump across that should keep us clear of the water. Anita and I clear it easily enough. Citrine takes so long to cross that Angelus snarls at her that he'll push her in again if she doesn't hurry up. Carla comes over last and loses her footing on the second last rock, splashing heavily into an eddy of twigs and leaves. She comes up dripping and gasping, bits of plant and river-weed stuck in her hair.

"I hate rivers," she grumbles as Anita helps her up to the bank. She wrings her hair out twice and reties it before we head back.


	8. Chapter 8

Marcellus is less than impressed when we get back. He's packed most of our good supplies into the six biggest backpacks, including all our remaining food and first aid gear. He throws one of the packs at Citrine and tells her to get her own bandages out and stalks off to the lake to fish out a replacement sword and knife from the pile of unwanted weapons he had already tossed in the water.

Other supplies that we weren't planning on using have been thrown in there as well, or otherwise destroyed to prevent any of the other tributes coming in after we have left to take them. I grab the remains of one of the smaller tents that Marcellus has possibly used for sword drills and cut the material into long, thin strips for extra bandages. I also empty out my day-pack and transfer anything I want to keep. I toss the two fish, which are starting to smell after a few hours in the heat. Maybe if we run out of food and my sponsors stop providing I'll eat from the arena. Until then there's no point risking that it's poisonous.

I know that poisonous fish do exist—one of the girls I trained with, Shell Kimura's family farms a weird fat spiky sort in special tanks and ships directly to the Capitol. Supposedly it's sold as a delicacy there, and people pay extra for the risk of death if their slice isn't perfectly prepared. There's also poison perch that the Capitol modified and released near rebel soldiers during the Dark Days that looks like an ordinary perch, but eating them can make you violently ill for days. According to some of the older people in the District, it's the main reason we lost one of the larger battles of the war.

Of course I have no doubt that the Gamemakers could easily invent their own types just for this arena. I can't remember if there was anything at training about identifying edible animals. Even if there was I'd probably be as bad at it as I was with the plants.

I decide to take a nap for a few hours before we move out, curled up in the shade of the Cornucopia out of the direct heat. The gentle murmur of conversation lulls me to sleep for a bit until I roll over and bang one of the bites on my leg against the metal horn. Carla and Citrine are also sleeping, though as always the girl from Two wakes immediately as I groan and stretch. I'm not sure if she ever actually sleeps properly.

About an hour before sunset a pair of parachutes descend bearing food. A small basket of plain bread rolls lands between the pair from Two. A larger basket lands in front of me—hot seafood chowder and a loaf of our thick salty district bread. I share mine with Anita, and offer some to the others, who turn it down. Carla and Marcellus don't share theirs either. It's a loud statement from our mentors about who has and hasn't been up to scratch so far.

We head out as the sun drops below the horizon, lighting our way with flashlights carried by Citrine and Anita, probably our two weaker fighters right now. As we pass the trees where both Marcellus and I heard rustling I slow for a long look and see him doing the same. In the fading light it would be quite difficult to see anything that stayed still. If it was a tribute and they are still around, at least we haven't left them anything much at the Cornucopia. I turn away as the anthem plays and reveals the cannon we heard earlier was for the scrawny girl from Twelve. Marcellus snorts derisively and waves us on towards the north-east, in the direction she was killed.

Once again we're forced to slow once we get past the more open grassy plains and into the denser trees. With only two light sources it's hard to see the ankle-turning tree roots or the leg-grabbing brambles. When Marcellus, who is insisting on leading at a very fast walk that the rest of us are struggling to keep up with, stumbles into a patch of stinging nettles he calls a halt.

I can hear him swearing under his breath as he rummages through his bag for a spray, snapping at the girls to give him more light and at the same time keep watching outwards. When he leads us out again it's at a much slower pace, and even though we keep our eyes and ears tuned for any signs of movement we find nothing.

We stop again around midnight in a sheltered clearing. It's a warm enough night that no one can be bothered with the tents that Carla and Marcellus are carrying. I re-treat my bites and scrapes and burrow down into my sleeping bag, trying to ignore the stinging and catch a few hours sleep. I doze in and out, waking alternately from a niggling pain, a twinge of my leg muscles, still not used to running all day and several times from the rustling of leaves and branches.

I'm mostly awake when Anita pokes me for my watch, and after my hour am still wide eyed. I don't bother waking Citrine, who probably needs the sleep more than I do. The others stir as the golden morning light starts peeking through, throwing long morning shadows across our bland breakfast of dried fruit and crackers.

Packing up and moving out through the trees feels routine now after nearly five days in the arena. Initially Marcellus demands we walk in silence, but it soon becomes obvious that anyone around would hear us coming half a mile off and the girls start a low chatter. Carla and Anita run through who is left besides us: the obvious threats, Ida and Tarris from Ten and the high-scoring Markus from Eight; the barely memorable boys from Three and Five and my big, sturdy friend Rosie from Eleven are still out there too. By our count there's one more. Anita is sure is one of the girls, but none of us can remember who.

"I guess we'll find out when we find them and kill them," Carla says with a laugh.

The conversation dies out to muttered swearing as we hit another bramble patch.

~xXx~

Around mid-afternoon Angelus steps behind a tree to take a leak and stomps back looking grumpy. His right leg is coated half-way up his shin in foul-smelling muck.

"What's the matter, did you fall into a stream?" Carla asks pointedly.

Angelus shakes his head. "Swamp," he says shortly, lip curling as he tries to shake his foot clean. "By the smell of it a big one."

Now that he mentions it, I can smell something on the wind. Sure enough another hundred feet on the trees thin out a little and the ground becomes a patchwork of glistening mud and murky pools. Small, chirpy birds flit around the tree-tops and a constant grating of insects and frog bellows fills my ears.

I've never been out in the swamps up the coast from our District, just sailed past them on a boat a few dozen times, but it's still more experience than any of the others have had. Amazingly they are willing to take my lead, and eventually we agree to move along parallel to the swamp edge, watching out for any movement that might mean mutts or tributes, or for any sort of path of solid ground that will let us go out further safely.

"Also, check for leeches and ticks regularly," I say, prompting both my allies from One to squirm a bit. I keep that in mind, and decide if I find any harmless looking crawlies to drop one in Angelus' sleeping bag the next time we make camp.

It's even slower going than the bramble forest, and within an hour all six of us have stepped into at least one muddy puddle. My soaked sandals weigh down on my feet, making me more prone to stumbling, and the clouds of bugs are a constant annoyance. At least the mud is nice and cooling on my bites and scratches, sealing over hard and preventing stinging sweat from dripping in them. I have to hope that the cream I used will keep out any infection; I'd hate to fight my way through the Hunger Games only to lose my leg or arm to a parasite.

As soon as we find a clear solid piece of ground Marcellus calls for camp. He wants us to stay in sight of the swamp, ignoring all arguments about escaping the biting insects and foul stench by heading back into the forest as he starts setting up the tent that us three boys will share.

Carla wrinkles her nose and gives in, setting up the girls' tent behind ours and facing away from the murky marshland. "Just watching our backs," she says innocently when Marcellus raises a questioning eyebrow.

Angelus still isn't happy and stalks away back into the trees, claiming he's going hunting somewhere that he won't have to get muddy. I spot a couple of leeches hanging off the back of his calf and decide to let him discover them for himself. Instead I collect up some dry wood and start a little fire in-between our two tents, stretching out beside it to dry my soaked sandals.

"Do you think that's a good idea?" Citrine asks when I add some damper wood, causing a billow of smoke up among the treetops. I shrug, not really concerned since we'll outnumber anyone who would try anything.

"Let them come," Marcellus grunts as he settles his own sodden footwear to dry as well. "Save us the effort of chasing them."

Mags delivers again at dinner time, though I notice the unspoken comment when I lift the lid of the pot and find a bland vegetable stew. The price of sponsor gifts rises day by day, and watching me fall into muddy puddles or being attacked by swarms of carnivorous fish isn't winning me any extra sponsors.

Once I finish eating I strip off my thin vest and shorts and start washing out my wounds with a little of my bottled water. Anita whistles as I reach around to clean the back of my shoulder, inadvertently flexing my arm muscles.

"Giving us a show Finn?" she asks teasingly.

"Of course," I tell her cheerfully. "I'm the one who's good at stripping and flirting remember?"

Marcellus snorts and asks, "Is that what you did to get your Nine in training?"

His tone isn't threatening like Angelus' would have been, and to be fair I did strip my shirt off during my private evaluation, so I answer him with a grin. "Absolutely. And I showed off my spear-work too. They loved it."

Anita groans and smacks the back of my head in a friendly manner.

The cannon boom makes us all jump. It's a fair way off, down towards the south-east. Probably not Angelus, though I can hope.

"What do you think, head down that way tomorrow?" Carla asks hopefully.

"No," Marcellus says firmly, ignoring the groans. "For all we know it was someone falling off a cliff or into a stream full of those vicious fish you all nearly got eaten by. We'll stick up here for another day at least. I'm sure there's at least one tribute hiding in here."

"Why?" Anita asks, and elaborates when Marcellus glares at her. "Why would anyone choose to hide out in this foul-smelling, bug-ridden swamp when there are perfectly nice beaches and forests down that way?"

"Because they don't think anyone will come looking for them in the foul-smelling, bug-ridden swamp," he says shortly. "But they are wrong."

"Maybe the girl from Twelve was hiding out here, but they, I dunno, ate a poisonous frog and died and now there's no-one?" I suggest, and get scowled at in return.

"We are following the edge until we find a path or any sign of tributes for at least another day, maybe two. If any of you don't like it, I'm happy to settle it with a fight. No?"

He looks around at all of us until we all shake our heads. It's too early to split our pack, most of us have no natural survival skills and a fight between us would probably end up with all of us losing out.

"Good," he says. "I'm going to catch an early nap. Make sure someone catches the anthem to see who that was, otherwise sort out a guard shift schedule. When that…when Angelus gets back, tell him he gets the midnight guard shift. We'll head out at sunrise."

He climbs into the tent and after ten minutes I hear him snoring. I drink up the last of the water bottle I was using for cleaning and hunt through my bag for my other one.

"You know, we may need to go get water tomorrow," Carla says thoughtfully as she looks at her own half-empty bottle. We've been re-filling them at every lake and stream and have plenty of purifiers, but we haven't crossed one of those since early morning. The heavy, humid weather combined with all our trekking means we've all been drinking more than usual too.

Anita snorts. "Yeah, maybe Marcellus will accept that as a good reason, unlike everything else."

"Maybe," Carla replies with a small smile, and I wonder if she knows something about Marcellus that the rest of us don't. It wouldn't be surprising; I don't know much about how District Two does its training, but even if they didn't have much to do with one-another before the Games they had the whole week of pre-Games prep time to get acquainted.

The anthem plays as Angelus walks back into camp, still looking grumpy and mud-spattered.

"Did you catch anything?" Anita asks cheerfully, knowing full well he didn't.

He snarls at her in reply and stomps into the tent, probably loud enough to wake Marcellus. I silently hope my ally from Two punches him or something and turn back to the sky which is showing a picture of a scrawny, pinch-faced boy.

"That's Five, right?" Carla asks. "Eddy or something."

"Eddison Stewart," Citrine mutters under her breath. She's the sort who doesn't say much but sees and hears everything, at least when her eye isn't swollen shut. I wouldn't be surprised if she remembers all the names. I personally don't see the point. Unless I'm going to work with them, I'd rather not know who I'm killing. It's bad enough remembering that if I'm getting out of here alive, that all my allies sitting or sleeping nearby will have to be dead.

I shake my head, trying to force those sorts of thoughts out and away. Nothing I can afford to worry about, because no matter what it won't make things any better.

"I'll take first watch if the rest of you want to catch some sleep," I say, forcing my voice to stay cheerful, as though I wasn't thinking about any of these people being dead a moment ago.

"Wake me in a few hours," Carla says amicably as the girls get up and start retreating to their own tent.

It's a lot harder to judge the time without a good view of the near-full moon, but I catch enough glimpses through the trees as it rises to make a guess at my two hours. Carla wakes while I'm unzipping the tent flap and I reach in to give her a hand upright. We end up face to face in the fire light, her eyes glittering as they catch reflections of the glowing wood. She grins in the darkness and reaches up to ruffle my hair the way Anita would. Like my mom used to before she died.

I shiver and take a controlled step backwards, pointing to my pile of mostly dry branches I collected while waiting.

"Thanks," she says softly. "You go get some rest now."

I go, trying not to think about the feeling of her fingers in my hair as I climb into the tent and discover Angelus deliberately sprawled on a diagonal angle, effectively taking up all the space left beside Marcellus. I decide not to bother about whether or not the wriggly I shove down his shorts tomorrow is poisonous, grab my bag and set up beside the tent. Carla gives me an odd look until she catches the expression on my face.

"He's a jerk," she mutters as I crawl into my bag, pulling it up tight over my head in the hope it will keep some of the bugs out.

Somehow, through the constant buzzing, croaking and chirping I manage to fall asleep.

~xXx~

The next day is miserable. It's even hotter when I wake than it has been any other day so far. I have to force myself to only drink a few mouthfuls of water when my body is demanding the whole bottle, since we may not get any more soon.

I'm sure Mags could send me some, but I'd rather not have her waste good sponsor money on something we should be able to get ourselves. Marcellus grudgingly agrees that if we don't find anything in the swamp by midday that we'll head back south and look for a water source. The swamp mud stinks more and more as the temperature of the day rises and all of us are scratching bug bites that the spray in Anita's first aid pack can't seem to help.

I had hoped that the hot weather would at least dry up some of the swamp edge, but like yesterday all of us end up stepping in a few stinking mud-puddles and by mid-morning my sandals are once again soaked through and heavy.

Eventually we do come to a stream that looks mostly clear, and even better there's a pile of branches and vines that doesn't quite look natural. Undoubtedly a tribute is here, or at least was here at some point.

Marcellus orders us to spread out and search, and I notice the others glancing up into the trees probably remembering Wheela, though the branches of the trees here are a lot thinner and sparser. I go poke at the rough shelter some more, mostly as an excuse to stay clear of the swamp for a few minutes. As I cut the vines and knock away the larger branches I spot a flash of green and yellow—a small, brightly colored pack that the owner had tried to coat with mud to hide it. Inside the bag is a coil of wire, an unused box of matches and an opened packet of jerky strips. Surely no-one would leave this behind unless they were only going a few steps away or are dead.

I pick it up and turn to say this to the others when Anita calls out, "Hey, down here."

She's right by the stream where it connects to a muddy, brackish pool of the swamp and stands up holding a water bottle.

"There's a-"

Her words are cut off as a huge dark shape lunges from the water and clamps its jaws down on her outstretched arm. I've never seen a gator before, but I've heard stories and this monster exceeds them all.

Carla moves first, racing in from the side and driving her sword into the creature's eye, causing a spray of blood but not making any difference to the clamped jaws. Anita shrieks suddenly, and jabs with her spear, but it's in her off-hand and at a bad angle, and the sharp point deflects against thick scaly hide.

The creature starts shuffling backwards towards the water, easily dragging Anita with it and she screams again for us to come help her. I force my frozen legs into action and run in behind her just as Marcellus arrives and chops down at the top of the creature's head. Despite his strength, the sword ricochets off the thick hide as well, nearly rebounding into his face. It does slow the backwards drag though, and I drop my gear and grab Anita from behind, wrapping one arm around her waist and clamping the other onto her forearm just outside the heavily fanged jaw.

From this angle I can see the stream of blood running from her wrist, where it has been pierced. Which is surprising, since I wouldn't expect to see anything at all. Further in I catch a glimpse of silver, the metal drink bottle she was holding, which appears to be keeping the monster's jaws wedged slightly apart. As I watch there's a crunching noise and the gap narrows.

I don't have any time to worry about how much it will hurt her—if I don't act now she will almost certainly lose the hand, which at this stage of the Games will mean death. I haul backwards as Marcellus strikes down again, twisting hard to the left, and her hand pulls free moments before the jaws clamp completely shut.

We both fall backward in a heap and I scuttle backwards on all fours, dragging her with me until I feel safely out of reach. Marcellus strikes one last blow across the scaly snout and the gator monster thing retreats back into the brackish water.

Suddenly the whole world that was spinning and roaring becomes eerily still and quiet. Then the birds and insects start chirping again and we all let out a breath of relief.

"Owww," Anita says, running her uninjured hand up her arm, which is scored deeply with a jagged five inch tear.

Angelus, who I notice stayed well back during the entire encounter snorts loudly. "Why don't you go wash that off in the stream."

Anita responds by grabbing a handful of mud and throwing it at him, which splatters satisfyingly across the left side of his face.

"I vote we get the hell away from this swamp," she replies, her voice still slightly ragged and edgy.

Marcellus' face clouds with that stubborn look, but Anita jumps in again before he can speak.

"The reason I grabbed the bottle was because it had a huge dent in it. I bet the kid from Twelve was filling it when that monster jumped out and bit her in half or something. And even if it wasn't, anyone who stays around here will get eaten by that eventually. Let's go down that way where we know some of the others are."

Finally Marcellus concedes. "Fine," he says after a moment of consideration. "Wrap that up and we'll head down that other finger of land."


	9. Chapter 9

When I wake the next morning, it's to the glorious sound of near silence. One or two birds chirping, but no insects grating, no frogs croaking or bellowing, and definitely no swamp monsters trying to eat us alive. I eat the last of my dried fruit for breakfast, and am still hungry when it's gone. The last four crackers look so tempting, but they might be dinner unless a generous sponsor steps in.

Anita looks pale as she eats with her left hand and winces occasionally when her other arm moves, though the cream we had should have healed the worst of the cut over. Then again, Citrine's hands are still a bit scratched and tender from her fall in the river a few days back. Neither of them are unable to walk though, so we head out at a gentler pace, following the edge of the trees but walking in the open grasslands where the footing is easier.

Since we'd be seen from a mile away, no-one worries about making noise and there's occasional chatter as we discuss who is left and where they might be hiding. Yesterday afternoon there was another cannon, and the evening anthem showed the boy from Three. The cannon sound and hovercraft looked to be back over by the cornucopia, roughly parallel to our position though a good five miles west and I'd guess he was the rustling I heard in the trees while on guard duty that night. Either that or someone who killed him was.

No matter what, there's still most of the stronger tributes still around. The pair from Ten, Ida and Tarris, and Markus from Eight. The girls are pretty sure that the girl from Eight is still alive too, and was the tribute we couldn't remember earlier. I can't really remember much about her at all, so they might be right. Otherwise it's just big, shy Rosie from Eleven, who is probably surviving fine off the land. Given her size and strength, I'd probably back her against that swamp gator mutt too. Even so, we all agree she's not the biggest threat.

There's a few pointed comments thrown in the direction of the pair from One as well, regarding the fight with the swamp gator. Fair enough Citrine was still injured and chose to hang back from the fight, but Angelus had no excuse and was actually closer than Marcellus was when the creature attacked. He claims that he has no interest in allies that can't look after themselves, and I agreed with Carla when she told him that if any sort of mutt comes after him we'd make sure to stand back and let him take care of it himself.

By late morning the trees peel away and we decide to pick up the pace towards the river we can see across a few miles of open grassland to the south. There are a few gentle hills as we run and from one of the heights I spot what looks like a second, smaller lake that the river flows into. A good spot for tributes to camp. Without speaking the whole group picks up to a faster run, though Anita looks gray in the face from pain.

About a hundred yards away from the water, as we pass a small copse of bushes I hear a dull thud and turn back to see Citrine flat on the ground. Thinking she must have tripped, Anita and I drop back to help her up when the bushes erupt and a large rock bounces off my spear hand. A third projectile smacks into Marcellus' jaw as he turns to see what is happening, and he drops as well. I duck as another comes flinging towards me, quickly ditching my pack, and when I look up I have to dive away from a vicious knife stab.

The girl from Ten, Ida follows my dive and leaps onto me, stabbing down, but she gets hit in turn by Anita, who tackles in from the side. The two girls go rolling away, clawing at one another's' faces as I pick myself up, wincing as I lean against my right hand. Already my fingers are beginning to swell and sharp pains lance up my arm as I wiggle them. Probably broken. Not good.

I hear Anita cry out as Ida jams her fingers into the barely closed wound on my ally's arm and I quickly re-engage, grabbing the girl from Ten by the hair and hauling her backwards, throwing her to the ground. She scrambles to her feet too quickly for me to fetch my spear so I pull the knife I had shoved in my belt and catch her slash on my blade. I'm nearly a head taller and trained, but fighting with my left hand isn't something I've practiced much.

I decide to go for brute force and ignore the sharp pain along my shoulder blade as I shove forwards, trying to get my knife into her side. It hits the bone of her ribcage and skitters off, but she does fall back a few steps.

"LOOK OUT FINN!"

I turn in time to dodge Tarris's stab towards my back. He stumbles and I see Anita clinging tightly to his leg from her prone position, probably the only reason I'm not already dead. I swing my knife at his throat but he rolls away, kicking hard at my ally's hands and face with his free foot and charges into me from a crouch, crashing heavily into my stomach. Like Ida did to me moments ago, I try to stab down into his back, but only score a shallow slice. There's a momentary sharp pain around my throat and I try to pull away, but he follows the movement, driving hard into me with his shoulder.

Unarmed combat was never one of my great strengths, but all the years of wrestling with Oris causes me to instinctively roll and push as my back hits the ground, sending Tarris tumbling over and off me. As we both pick ourselves up I risk a glance over my shoulder, where Anita is sitting on the ground trying to stop the blood pouring out of her nose and Marcellus is on all fours, shaking his head and rubbing his jaw. Carla has a nasty cut across the top of her face that she is trying to stem, which is probably hindering her vision, and a second knife hilt protrudes from her thigh.

I turn back to my immediate foe, who winces as he rolls his shoulders but drops back into a fighting crouch, ready for another round. He swings at me as I swing at him, and we catch each other by the opposite wrist, wrestling for control. We're about the same height and build, and since my allies outnumber him I just have to hold the stalemate until one of them jumps in. From the throbbing pain in my injured hand I have to hope that help comes soon.

Over his shoulder I see Ida sparring with Angelus. The girl from Ten gets knocked to the ground but scoops a handful of dirt into my ally's face and follows it up with a sharp kick somewhere no boy ever wants to get kicked. Angelus buckles at the knees, though keeps his sword swinging wildly as he scrapes at his eyes with his other hand, preventing her from getting any closer while he is still blinded.

She doesn't try for him though. Poor Citrine who is also groggily trying to stand is a much easier target and a single knife slash opens her throat in a spray of blood.

"One down!" Ida yells, and Tarris grins as he suddenly twists, disengaging our holds. I swing my knife up to block his blade again but he hops back and kicks me hard in the chest. My cut shoulder hits the ground first this time and a wave of pain causes my vision to go gray. When it clears I see Anita and Carla have jumped back in and as I watch, the girl from Two takes a wobbling step forwards and jerks Ida's arm in a strong grip. There's a loud CRACK as the girl from Ten's arm breaks, and Carla catches the dropped knife and jams it between Ida's ribs, straight to the heart with a finishing twist.

Tarris seems to have the advantage over Anita though and as I reach out my hand to brace myself to stand up I find the long, smooth haft of my dropped spear. When the boy from Ten next drives Anita back a few steps I take her place and ignore the grating pain in my swollen fingers for the few moments it takes me to drive the spear-point home.

Just like big Solphis Gunner at the bloodbath fight, the sharp point enters Tarris' throat, cutting cleanly through skin and muscle until it snags on his spine. I jerk the spear sharply to the side, opening the cut wide and am sprayed by the warm, sticky blood as he tumbles forward, his chin clunking into my knee as he lands on my feet. I try to step backwards but all the mad strength from the fight up and leaves, and my legs tremble and give, and I end up sitting down hard, my feet still wedged under the body of a dying boy.

We wait in silence until the three cannons fire. One for my ally, who never had much luck right from the start, one for the vicious, angry girl who nearly beat me in a knife fight and one for the boy, the nephew of a previous victor, I remember suddenly, whose blood has soaked into my sandals and whose fine brown hair is still brushing my shin.

A slight breeze sends a shiver down my spine and all the pain that was held off by adrenaline comes rushing back in, especially in my fighting hand. Carla hobbles over to help me push free of the body and drags me upright. I notice the knife still stuck in her leg and reach out to pull it free but she pushes my hand away.

"Not until I've got something to stop it," she says dully.

"Stream," Marcellus says, coming over and wincing as he speaks. There's already a large swelling on the side of his jaw and his eyes are slightly out of focus. "We'll clean up there."

He marches over towards Angelus, who is still trying to scrub dirt out of his eyes next to the body of our ally and wrestles the pack free off the dead girl's back. He slams it into Angelus' midriff and snarls "You carry this too. Do something useful," before turning and leading our slow, sorry trudge towards the water.

~xXx~

The parachute lands on me as soon as we reach the stream edge, bearing a small tube of pungent cream and a tiny syringe as well as some more clean bandages and three fiberglass rods about as long as my fingers. Splints, I realize after staring at them for a minute.

Carla hobbles over and says, "I'll fix up your fingers for some of the cream." I readily agree.

She seems to know what she's doing, and slathers my hand with cream before binding the fingers straight to each of the sticks. I bite down on my lip so hard that it bleeds when she straightens them and I end up sticking a small dollop of cream on that as well. She looks at the syringe curiously and her eyebrows shoot up when she reads the name.

"It's a bone regrowth enhancer. I've seen one used before, it fixed a broken leg in about three days. You have some seriously good sponsors."

Without asking she draws the cap and jabs it into the back of my hand, pushing down the plunger. A wave of ice follows it, a pleasant numbing coolness that replaces the dull thudding ache. She finishes by binding all three of the fingers together with a loose tie that will make me even less likely to try and bend them.

"Give it a day or so and you should be right to use them again," she says confidently.

"Thanks Doctor Carla," I reply with a grin, then remember to add, "and thanks sponsors too. I feel heaps better already." I throw another grin and wave to the sky.

She rolls her eyes and says, "I'll take my payment now."

I help brace her leg as she draws out the knife and washes the wound clean. A quick slather of the cream already slows the bleeding to nearly nothing, and I reach up and swipe the cut across her forehead as well, marveling as it appears to seal while I'm watching.

Remembering my other wounds I pull my vest free, wincing as it sticks slightly to my bloody shoulder and go soak it in the stream, using it to scrub my shoulder clean before piling on more of that amazing healing goo. Anita comes over as I finish wringing out the vest again and fingers the long cut in the back as I shake it out. She's cleaned off her face but I notice two of her fingers curled at a painful angle. The hand Tarris kicked when she caught his ankle and stopped him knifing me in the back.

I don't have any fancy Capitol splints, but I try to repeat Carla's method with some sturdy reeds, and use the last of my cream to properly fix the jagged gator wound along Anita's arm. It's only fair, I feel, since she did save me.

I notice as we re-join the others that I'm the only one who got some sponsor treatment. Probably why Carla came straight to me to try and get some of mine. Not that I mind.

"We'll camp here tonight," Marcellus slurs through his swollen jaw as he fishes around for some food in his pack and winces when all he finds is chewy beef jerky.

"Do you want me to fish for you? Something soft and squishy and easy to chew?" I ask with a small grin, unable to resist.

He glowers at me for a second, then laughs. "I'm not quite that hungry yet."

Eventually I convince him to swap me the jerky for my remaining crackers. Meat for me, at least something in his stomach for him. Neither of us thinks of checking to see what Citrine had left until after we've set up the tents, and we find no food left in her bag. We're both sure that Angelus must have taken it, but since he's the only one still essentially uninjured right now, I don't think any of us want another fight.

Not until the next morning, when I have my last bit of jerky for breakfast, marveling at how the cuts have all but disappeared and at the minimal pain in my fingers thanks to the Capitol medicines. Carla finishes her last cracker while Marcellus and Anita go hungry. Angelus finishes his own crackers, then pulls out a half-full packet of dried apricots, carefully folded and tied shut with a bit of reed-grass. I saw Citrine tie it the other morning, so there's no doubt where it came from.

Marcellus doesn't miss it either; his eyes are back in focus today and the swelling on his jaw has gone way down, leaving a large blue-black bruise.

"You going to share those?" He asks pointedly.

Angelus sneers back, "I didn't see you sharing any of yours."

"That's not yours," Marcellus replies. "It was hers, now it's all of ours."

Angelus shrugs and grabs another few pieces from the bag, chewing and swallowing slowly and deliberately. "You gave it to me yesterday. That makes it mine."

Marcellus snarls and lunges forward, grabbing the smaller boy's wrist hard enough to send the whole bag tumbling, fruit pieces scattering through the grass.

"I told you to carry it not take it, since you decided not to bother helping with the rest of the fight. What happened, did you get scared? Wet your pants? I thought Finnick was supposed to be the baby here, but he did his bit, got his kill. Where were you?"

Angelus squirms in pain and snaps back, "I went around the back of the bushes to make sure there weren't any more hiding in there. Then I tried to protect my district partner."

"What a great job you did at that," Carla says snidely. Angelus pulls his arm free and turns on her, getting right up in her face. "Yeah, well you didn't do much better did you? Got your knife stolen and stuck in your leg, and you," he turns back to Marcellus, "You were lying on the ground moaning because you got smacked in the face with a rock. I didn't see you doing much either."

Marcellus glares at him for a few seconds, then leans back and punches him squarely in the face. Angelus falls to the side and sits back up slowly, wiping away his mouth, though I don't see any blood. He picks up his sword and points it at Marcellus, waving it slightly, probably to make the point of whatever he says next. Marcellus doesn't flinch, staring down the sword point just six inches from his face with a mockingly raised eyebrow.

The image is so comical I almost laugh. Then Angelus lunges forwards, driving the point of his blade into Marcellus' face. I think he was aiming for the eye but the boy from Two jerks back slightly and it opens a long red line from his cheek to the swollen bruise on his jaw.

"HEY!" Screams Carla, who dives in and grabs at Angelus' sword arm, taking an elbow to her face for her trouble. Angelus turns back to Marcellus and tries again to end him, but Marcellus throws an arm up to take the second slash, roaring as his bare arm is cut from wrist to elbow.

I feel a tug on my shoulders and turn to see Anita already standing, her pack slung over one shoulder.

"Quick, let's go," she hisses, trying to pull me to my feet. I respond slowly, my head swirling, watching as people I considered allies continue to fight. This isn't how it was supposed to happen.

"Hey, where are you going?" Carla yells suddenly, shoving Anita away from me. Behind her Marcellus has got Angelus in a headlock despite the blood pouring from his face and arm.

Anita shoves back. "We're going," she says firmly, and tries to step away, but Carla reaches forward and grabs her by the hair, dragging her back in.

"You don't go unless I say you go," my supposed ally snarls, backhanding Anita across the face.

I've come to like and respect Carla over the last seven days, but Anita was my friend first, someone I'd occasionally chat to at training over the nearly five years we had both been going. Someone who had my back all through the lead-up and early Games until I made my own name. I can't let Carla push around my friend.

I jump up and grab Carla from behind, throwing her with a hip twist back towards the other boys. "Leave her alone," I say, and turn to help Anita steady.

She takes my hand with a grateful smile, then her eyes widen and she tugs me sharply forwards. I crash into her, knocking her down and feel a thin line of pain across my lower back. As I roll to my feet, I manage to keep a hold of my spear, which proves the difference.

I had thought it before the Games, that if I had to face Angelus in a fight, as long as I had my spear against his sword I would be fine. I can't see what he's done to Marcellus or Carla, but the golden-haired boy from One smirks as he lunges at me again, thinking I'm an easy catch.

I step to the left, making sure to draw him away from Anita, who is still on the ground, then drop back into the routines I've spent years practicing. Even with my splinted fingers, my body responds to the drills: turn the point with the outside of the shaft, then swing back in with the cutting head. Take the shoulder first, then the leg. Once their mobility is gone, go for the finishing strike.

My grip isn't as steady as it should be though, and Angelus is angry. He seemed to hate me from the start, maybe because I'm better looking and took what he thought were his sponsors. Maybe because I'm so young and the others seemed to like me better. Maybe because I would always try and bait him with petty little annoyances the same as he did to me.

Twice he manages to cut me, but eventually I get the shoulder and he's forced to swap hands. A quick low cut forces him to step back but I catch the edge of his knee. I kick the wound as he staggers then, as he makes a desperate lunge I sidestep and set myself, and feel the wrenching grind as my spear drives through his stomach and out through his back.

His wild, agonized sword swings nick my left arm a couple more times, but when I jerk the spear a quarter turn he stops and gives a piteous moan. I try to pull back, figuring it will be a quicker death with the wound open, but my weapon is stuck hard and eventually I let it fall from my hand, watching as my former ally falls to his hands and knees, then rolls sideways, convulsing wildly.

For a minute I think I have fixed the problem—Angelus was the one who started the fight and I ended it and now we can go back to working together—but the look Carla shoots me is frightening, and a soft splashing marks Anita's progress as she wades into the stream, away from all of us. Part way across she turns and looks at me, and back at the pair from Two and I realize that there is no going back.

They might take me in for a bit, but there's so few of us left now that if I stayed I'd almost certainly be killed whenever it is convenient for them. Anita knew this, which is why she decided to run as soon as they started fighting. She even tried to bring me along, though I'd have to go in reach of Carla and Marcellus to follow her.

She seems to realize this too, and turns away, continuing quickly through the water. I take slow step back as Carla begins walking towards me. It doesn't matter if she's offering peace or a fight now; I've finally understood what it will mean to be the victor of these Games. Either I die or they do. No more time for friends.

I turn and run, zig-zagging across the open grasslands to the east, aiming for the tree line about a mile away. When I glance back over my shoulder I see that neither of them are following. Why would they? They still have a team of sorts, probably the only alliance left standing, and they have all the supplies. My spear is still in Angelus' body. I can see it as the cannon fires and the hovercraft drifts in from above, a thin line hanging from his body as he is carried into the air. My knife is still in my belt, but I already know I'm not much good left-handed, and the pain that had dulled in my broken fingers is now sharp and persistent after the fight.

I draw the knife anyway when I reach the trees—there's still three others out there besides my former allies, and right now I wouldn't back myself against any of them. Well maybe the girl from Eight. And I might be able to convince Rosie to team up with me. I'd know she would have to die in the end, but she might not realize that about me. Yet.

No food, no water, though I'm sure I have plenty of sponsors who will provide, especially since I personally took out my two strongest rivals in the good looks race. Right now the main thing I need is a safe place to recover, both physically and mentally. I try to picture what I know of the arena and decide if I keep on straight through this forest should eventually reach the shore and the salt water, the only place that would feel anything like safety for me right now.


	10. Chapter 10

It takes me until late afternoon to get through the forest. I'm used to having a full water bottle for whenever I'm thirsty and every rustle and creak makes me jump now that there's no-one else to watch my back. I smell the salt water before I see it. I throw my head back as I walk the short fifty yards between the last tree and the glistening sand, breathing deeply the smell of home. Right now, more than anything else I want to go dive into the gently lapping waves, to feel the water flow past my skin and the salt lift me up and carry me gently to the surface as it feeds me strength.

A second look at the beach, the sharp slope that suggests a strong undercurrent combined with the sure knowledge that the Gamemakers will have filled it with all sorts of ocean-going nasties makes me reconsider. I settle for wading in shin deep and kneeling down to scoop handfuls of rejuvenating salt water over my head. I hiss a little as the salt gets into a few of my cuts and scratches, but they are mostly small ones, and everyone in our district knows that salt water is the best thing for minor wounds.

I wash away the blood from my hands and wrists, mostly mine, though I suspect some came from Angelus, and use a fist full of sand to scrub clean my sandals. I grab another handful and rub it through my hair, ducking my head down into the water and running my fingers through to work out the snarls and grime from a week without washing. As I run my hands down the back of my neck I notice what is missing. My district token, those little pieces from people who care about me tied onto a piece of my adoptive father's fishing line around my neck is gone. I can't remember losing it, or even when it was last there, though I guess in one of the fights it must have got torn off. I try to tell myself that it doesn't matter; I know they are all watching for me, though it leaves me feeling a little homesick and wanting to stay in the sea, as close to home as I can get.

Finally I force myself to stand and leave, deciding not to risk a Gamemaker wanting a little more excitement by facing me against a shark or something, though I doubt they need more excitement after the last day.

In under twenty-four hours we've gone from eleven tributes to seven. Two of the four dead were my kills, and I'm still not sure how I feel about that. Not that I could have done much different. Both Tarris and Angelus attacked me first. I was just the better fighter, or maybe the luckier fighter. Maybe both.

But then I had my allies to protect me. We had Marcellus in the lead, manning our helm. I didn't have to try to find fights to keep things moving on. But now, with our alliance scattered things will have to change. Maybe the pair from Two will stick together, maybe they'll come this way to finish me off first. After all, they know I'm popular with the sponsors, but if I'm gone then they would probably get the captain's share of the haul.

Even if they don't, I'm still stuck relying on sponsors to provide for me. Some of the others clearly don't need that help, and if the Games end up dragging on then maybe all the sponsors in the Capitol won't be enough to keep me eating. Not unless I do something about it. Either way I've got to step up. If I want to get out of the arena alive, and I do want to, I am going to have to turn the Games to my favor. Marcellus and Carla are not my former allies, they are now the enemy, just like Markus and his district partner. Just like Rosie. I'm not sure I can think of Anita as my enemy, but I can make her my rival in my head.

If it does come down to the two of us I'll know myself better. I'll know whether I will want to climb to victory over her dead body, and if I treat it like a training fight I suspect instinct might just take over anyway. Of course all my training instinct isn't much good without a weapon to hold or a hand strong enough to hold it.

I decide to keep my splints on until morning, mostly because my hand hurts enough already and I'm worried messing with it will make it even worse. I resignedly slip my sandals back on once I reach the edge of the sand and wander the edge of the forest in search of a strong, straight branch I can cut a point on to make a rough spear.

There's a tough, loose creeper that hangs down in strings from some of the taller trees that I might be able to make into a net, though it's fairly thin and bendy. I'd need something a bit stiffer in there too to help keep the net in shape. What I really want is a trident. I'm competent with a knife and good with a spear, but the prongs of a trident allow for so much more skill in fighting. My favorite training weapon had the sharp edges along the outer two prongs enabling all the same moves as a spear, but with the middle spike you can catch other peoples' weapons and trap them. A quick twist disarms them, just like I showed the Gamemakers in my training session. And when you do choose to stab them, it's three times as likely to hit something important.

The only downside is the back-hooks, which make sense for keeping a fish speared, but can make it harder to quickly draw the weapon free. Then again, my spear got stuck anyway, so it can't be any worse. I play around for a bit trying to tie three sharpened twigs to a longer, mostly straight branch but with my right hand still splinted it's hard to tie a good knot and the whole thing falls apart when I try a practice jab into a bush.

I throw away the useless twigs and try a few more practice jabs with the sharpened branch. The balance is terrible, but it's better than nothing, and while it won't stand up to a proper weapon in a fight I might at least be able to spear a fish or something with it. My stomach rumbles loudly as I think about food. All I've had today was that one strip of jerky and a few mouthfuls of water. I wonder why Mags hasn't sent me anything yet. Is it because I don't have as many sponsors as I thought? Maybe that medicine yesterday cost a lot and she hasn't been able to replace the money yet. Maybe I need to do something to get the Capitol's attention, though after killing two people in two days (I shiver as I feel an echo of the weight of Angelus' body dragging on my spear, of the grating vibration as metal met bone in Tarris' neck) surely I have their attention already.

Maybe Mags is just waiting for the right time.

Just in case I head back onto the beach and wade out into the water again, keeping my eyes peeled for the movement of any fish. After about half an hour I have nothing and my head is starting to ache from the heat and dehydration. The sun is starting to drop behind the trees, but I can still feel it on the back of my neck. I strip off the now-slightly-ragged vest and dip it into the water before draping it around my head and shoulders. The salt water runs down my bare back, cool and refreshing.

I walk slowly along the edge of the lapping waves, letting my feet and ankles get washed over and over with the gentle slosh of foam as I work my way down the beach in search of a pool where something might be trapped. The sunlight fades as I near the cliffs, and I spot some movement in the rocky tide pools that slowly become more common as the sand gives way to stone under my feet.

My poorly crafted spear isn't any help in catching them though. The fish are tiny and flick easily away from all of my stabs. The ray is in a larger pool and shelters under a rocky overhang. I'm tempted to climb in and try and take it from the side, but for all I know it's barb is deadly venom and not worth the risk. I find a few periwinkles stuck to the underside of a larger spur of rock and peel them off with my knife, cracking the shells with the hilt. Their meat is chewy and salty and leaves me even more thirsty. Finally I give up and sit down against a sea-worn boulder, letting the cool evening breeze pass over me and drain away some of the heat as the moon starts to peek over the horizon.

I jump when the anthem blares from overhead and get one last look at the boy I killed today. Angelus, smirking arrogantly, his golden curls gleaming in perfect rings to his shoulders. So different to how he looked impaled on my spear, his whole body shaking, mouth stretched in agony, his hair a tangled matt of blood and dirt and twigs. I hope his family can remember him as the first photo rather than the image in my head, though I doubt he has many friends to mourn him.

The sky goes dark again once the anthem finishes playing and the stars flicker in one by one. I trace the familiar patterns, the bear, the sea-serpent. A strange silvery cloud blocks out the serpent's tail as I'm watching, and seems to grow larger and larger until I recognize it for what it is. Two parachutes land on the sand in front of me. I scramble eagerly forwards to the first one—a small pack crammed with dried food and two bottles of water, a pair of night-glasses, water purifiers and a box of painkiller tablets. I pop two of these straight away and turn to the second sponsor gift. The bronze head gleams in the moonlight, the color nearly a match for my hair. The haft is dark green like the flecks in my eyes, and I think back to my stylist talking about color-matching whole wardrobes to my eyes. I wonder if he coordinated the color-scheme of my gift.

Of course the color doesn't really matter. I grip the haft in my left hand about two-thirds of the way down and try a few test jabs. The balance and length are perfect. It has enough weight to do damage without dragging on my arms and twirls easily in my grip as I swing it in a disarm twist. The bronze head is probably colored carbon-steel judging by the feel when I test it against my boulder, and the middle prong easily punctures the soft sandstone, sending flakes of rock flying as I pull it free.

The perfect tool for hunting and killing the remaining tributes. I hear the unspoken message behind it.

"Tomorrow," I say out loud, trying to look resolute. Then I give in to my growling stomach and feast on protein bars and jerky and a full bottle of sweet, sweet water. I don't really like the idea of trying to sleep without someone watching so I back right up under the cliff-face, into a worn cavern and put my back against the wall once I check the walls to be sure I'll stay above the tide-line.

I don't expect to sleep, but it seems my body has run out of energy for the day and I wake only when the rising morning tide tickles my feet.

~xXx~

The thick seaweed that grows around the base of the cliff is perfect for the thicker strands of a net. I cut an armful of lengths and carry them up onto the beach to dry a little in the morning sun while I go strip the nearby trees of their vines. All kids in District Four learn how to tie nets from their earliest days of school, if not before, though I never had any particular talent for it. I was all right at mending any broken ones on our boat before it sank, and I'd occasionally help Ric with the work if he brought one home from the boat he works on, but it's been a few years since I've had to make one from scratch.

Several times over the next few hours I wish that Anita was still with me, not just for the company, but because her family is part of the net-makers collective, and I'm sure she'd have no trouble at all putting one together. Eventually, once I pull the splints off my mostly fixed fingers and fiddle with the strands I remember enough of my lessons to get the first few knots right. By mid-morning my net has started to take shape. I end up cutting some bendy branches and braiding them into a strong loop to serve as the yoke. To this I tie eight strands of the seaweed and spread them out evenly into an eight-pointed star. I try to use the seaweed for the lead line that forms the outer circle but it doesn't braid easily and I'm worried just knotting the ends together to get a long enough piece will reduce the strength so I double-braid some more vines instead. Once I get the frame in place it's easy enough to diamond knot the flexible vine all around the thicker seaweed spokes, though it does take time and it's past noon when I finish tying the casting rope to the yoke in the middle.

It's a typical casting net, designed to be coiled in the hand and thrown to spread out over a large area. I soak it in the salt water and hang it to dry properly over my boulder while I collect some rocks to tie on as weights. I'm tempted to leave it drying overnight like I was taught in school, but I'm worried the Gamemakers won't understand, and when I test it just before sunset it seems strong and flexible, not quite as balanced as the ones I trained with, but good enough for the arena.

I doubt any of the other tributes besides Anita have ever practiced against a net fighter anyway, and most people panic when they get ensnared and try to wriggle free, which usually only tangles them up more. I try a few more practice throws until I'm happy with the cast, try a few more practice jabs with my trident in my dominant hand and toss back a couple more painkillers to fade out the last of the ache in my mostly healed hand.

There's no point waiting, I decide. Between the moonlight and the night glasses I can see well enough not to fall over the twisted tree roots, and start to make my way back into the forest. The rustling of small animals and the whispering of the trees don't frighten me now that I'm properly armed. An owl swoops past and I catch it easily with a throw of my net and strike down with the trident before its beak and claws can do any damage to the vines.

It dies with a single screech, and I consider tossing it in my pack and trying to cook it later. That would require ripping out all the feathers though. I decide it's too much effort and throw the bird aside.

I wonder how I look to anyone watching—and I have no doubt that there are people all over Panem watching right now. They always love to focus on a hunting tribute, and right now I'm giving them everything they could want. Armed with my clearly favorite weapon, alert and deadly and merciless, striking down anyone and anything that crosses my path.

Do they have a panel of specialists analyzing my every move? Probably. They had a whole talk-show segment on whether my good looks made me a strong fighter before the Games even started. Now the whole nation knows I can fight. The only question is whether I'm willing and able to take on the rest of the field on my terms. I wonder what Oris thinks.

My merciless persona that I'm trying to fill my head with wavers at the thought of my 'brother'. If I hadn't volunteered for him, would he be doing this if our places were reversed? I consider this for a moment then laugh. I doubt the volunteer pack would have taken him in, and even if they did I'm not sure he would have survived the Cornucopia fight. Too gentle and too hesitant when it comes to striking a final blow. Things no-one can afford to be during the Games.

I decide not to think about Oris anymore. Not until after I'm done and the Games are either won or lost. I don't need to hear his voice over my shoulder potentially staying my hand when I need to strike. I don't need to wonder what Mags is thinking. I've seen the footage of her cutting a thirteen-year-old boy open from chin to crotch and drowning another tribute with a weighted net. She knows what it's like to be in the arena, both fighting for your life because you have no other choice, and to actively kill on your own terms.

Wade was the same, five years back, swimming from island to island and killing anyone he found. Gabriela, Anita's mentor, who initially was only fighting in defense, but ended up knifing one of her allies deliberately in the back to trigger a melee that wiped out most of her competition. I think about some of the other Games I've seen; the little whisp of a girl four years back who would noose her enemies and use her own body weight to strangle them among the high treetops. The girl from Four a few years before that who waited until the others in the alliance were sleeping before slipping around and knifing them one by one. She would have got away with it if the girl from One hadn't been such a light sleeper.

All people who became hunters, who took the Games on and made the others play it their way. We would often watch replays of older Hunger Games in training to look at strategy and fighting styles, and while many were won by luck or dumb brute force or, most commonly the lone survivor of the volunteer pack melee, a good number were because the eventual victor turned the Games into their story. Made themselves the star of the show, the tribute that the Capitol wanted to win. I've had the advantage in popularity from the start thanks to my good looks, but now I need to capture the rest of the crowd. The ones who always cheer the strongest and most savage fighters the loudest and try to demand re-fights if they don't consider the eventual victor worthy of their title.

The more people who like me and want to see me win, the better my odds of the Gamemakers not throwing me off the pier into the deep water before I'm ready to swim. They won't try herding me towards someone 'stronger' like Marcellus or Carla, but will let me find them on my own terms and be ready for the fight when it comes. As long as I can stay fearless and vicious and strong, I have no doubt they will let me lead the show.

I am the shark now, lonely and cold, surging through the flickering school of lesser fish until I find and devour my prey. There was no mercy in the sharks that surrounded me while I huddled on a crate in a storm all those years back. There is no mercy in me now.

I re-coil my net and sling it over my left shoulder as I push through the deeper forest. It's hard going climbing around the thick bramble clumps and over fallen trees slippery with moss. I jump one particularly large log and nearly turn my ankle as the ground beneath my feet suddenly heaves. I slide off sideways as the lump shrieks and my coiled net topples from my shoulders onto the writhing form I accidentally stepped on.

It still takes me a few seconds to realize that it's not some wild animal, but another tribute tangled and wriggling as they try to fight free. Definitely a girl, though she doesn't sound like either Anita or Carla, and it's too small for Rosie. The mystery girl from Eight, I realize as she stops struggling, perhaps realizing that she's facing another tribute not some strange net-dropping muttation.

"Please," she whispers, barely louder than the gentle night breeze rustling through the leaves, though I have no doubt it was heard by everyone watching. All that talking myself up, becoming the killer that the Capitol wants to see starts this moment, or it doesn't start at all. If I can't kill a helpless, trapped girl begging for mercy, how could I possibly stand against one of the warriors from Two?

Shark, I remind myself as I drive the trident down, trying to aim for a quick kill. At least one of the prongs pierces her windpipe because she tries to scream but only manages a gurgle. I pull back, the hooked tines ripping even more of her neck open and I see the spray of blood that marks an opened artery. It looks a strange sort of gray-brown through the night-glasses. I wait until she finishes thrashing and the cannon fires before I draw the net back and re-coil it while I stare down at her face.

I try to keep my expression neutral, but I quickly realize that it's not going to work. A part of me just wants to be sick, the sentimental part that got me to volunteer for…I force my mind away from that thought with a quick shake of my head. That's no good either. I can't look worried or confused or bothered. It wouldn't fit the image. Shark, shark, shark I remind myself, trying to go for that cold, stern image of nonchalant killer, but it just won't fit.

So I try something else instead, and force a smile. Not my 'thank-you generous sponsors'' grin or my 'Mags, you're the best' grin, but my 'hiding Oris' books the day before a test' smile. My 'sticking a slimy toad in Angelus' pack' smile. Now my 'killing helpless girls trapped in a net' smile. It's better than being sick or showing weakness and maybe if I keep smiling the sentimental part of me will give way to the newer, darker Finnick Odair.


	11. Chapter 11

I end up following the stream back out to the open plains, figuring that without as many sponsors the other tributes will have to stay reasonably close to a good water source. I'm happy enough following the meandering bank as it twists through the grasslands back towards that small lake.

I stop in an area free of bushes and scrubby trees to refill my water, making sure I'm clear on all sides before letting go of my new trident. I can't risk any silly mistakes when facing off against the pair from Two. I don't know how wounded Marcellus was from his fight with Angelus, but Carla was still standing and I've seen how ferociously skilled she is with both sword and knife. Then again, she hasn't seen the best of me when fighting. Neither of them have. Maybe they'll underestimate me and give me the advantage I need, if the net and a perfect trident aren't advantage enough.

The ground rises a little as I continue on, the slight hill giving a bit of a view, and to my surprise I see movement near the river edge only a few hundred yards further on. The figures aren't big and as I gently jog closer I can clearly see it's Anita and Carla wrestling right on the edge of the bank. With a vicious shove Anita pushes Carla backwards and leaps into the water. She quickly swims across the twenty yards of water to relative safely, pulling herself out with only a slight struggle. Carla throws a rock at her retreating back, then sits back down, rubbing her shoulder briefly before searching through one of the packs for a drink.

I hesitate—should I go in now while Carla might be worn down, or should I wait, camp out and check the surroundings? I don't see any sign of Marcellus, which means her district partner has either split away or is out hunting. I lie down in the grass to watch for a few minutes as Carla settles herself and keeps a watch out in all directions, never letting go of her sword. I don't think she saw me since she mostly watches across the stream towards Anita, who is now sitting about ten yards back from the bank fiddling with something, her spear couched in the crook of her arm.

The wind picks up a little and I can catch a few words floating on the breeze, the two girls sniping verbally at one another. I'd guess Carla doesn't want to risk another encounter with a river and the flesh-eating fish and Anita doesn't back herself in a straight fight with the girl from Two. Finally my district partner stands and starts walking away to the north. I know Anita well enough to know she wouldn't be so risky sitting out in the open or moving slowly unless she didn't think Marcellus was around and decide it's a good time to make my move.

I loop around wide behind Carla as she continues to watch Anita's retreating back and slip my pack free, stretching out my arms and making sure my net is perfectly set for the throw. I have no doubt Carla would hear me coming if I tried to sneak, and the odds are she'll look around eventually so I go for speed instead, running hard and praying silently that I don't trip on a tuft of grass and accidentally spear myself with my own trident.

She turns when I'm about fifty yards away and scrambles to her feet, eyes widening in shock as I close the distance. The shoulder she was holding before is badly bruised, I notice, and her vest is ripped all down her left side but I'm still wary of her stronger arm as I put the momentum of my run into my throw and land the net easily on top of her.

She yells in shock and immediately tries to twist free, sword hacking at my carefully woven strands, and for a moment I'm just so irrationally angry at her damaging something I worked so hard to make that I yell right back at her as I thrust forward. She manages to partially deflect my first stab, though I feel the outer prong jitter as it cuts through her thigh. I drag it back sharply, ripping the wound wider with the barbed hook and give the net a sharp tug with my other hand, pulling her forward and off balance. The second thrust is good, taking her cleanly through the chest.

She coughs blood into my face and collapses with a groan and an expression of confused pain on her face, and I carefully twist the trident free, making sure not to cut any more strands as I reclaim my weapon. It's even harder to get the net free of her death throes, but eventually she goes still and I manage to untangle the main lines before the cannon fires. I look down at her face one last time—this girl who once was my ally, who had my back in several fights, who laughed and joked with me and who once ran her fingers through my hair and made me shiver. She looks younger than before, much less frightening.

I step back to let the hovercraft collect her and look over the stream to where Anita was fleeing. To my surprise my district partner looks back, not even a quarter mile gone. She must have heard the fighting and stopped to watch. I don't want to fight her, I don't want to kill her, but I have to at least make it look like I'm trying.

I coil the net back into my hand and point at her with the trident. The message should be clear to anyone watching—you're next. I take two steps forward and she turns away, keeps on running and I watch until her figure becomes a distant dark shadow and disappears into the forest. Once she's out of sight I gather up the three packs Carla was guarding and carry them back to where I dropped my own, sorting through for anything useful.

It's as good an excuse as any to delay chasing after Anita and once I'm done and rested I decide to follow the stream just a bit further, hoping to find a better ford that's safe to cross. As I reach the lake I see a strange swirling cloud of gray over to the west, hovering above the forest about a mile away. It dips and dives down into the treetops then rises and re-forms over and over and eventually I realize it's not a cloud but a flock of birds. There's only one reason for a mutt swarm anywhere near where I can see.

I don't rush through the trees. After all I might not be the only tribute nearby watching for the Gamemaker's signs. This band of forest is rather narrow and before the mile is up I break through to the long sandy beach that arches all around the middle of the two fingers of land. A large figure sits just above the tide-line surrounded by dead birds. Marcellus, who uses the washing waves to clean his sword as the remaining flock flutters high into the sky and away.

He must realize there's a reason they've stopped attacking and slowly turns and stands to face me.

"Pretty boy," he says, though he lacks the malice that Angelus always sneered it with.

"Marcellus," I reply with a nod and a smile.

He nods back at the gleaming weapon in my hand.

"Nice toy. Did you have to strip naked to get them to send you that one?"

I laugh, because that's what shark-Finnick would do. The inside me is a bit annoyed; I'm standing here looking fit and strong, I just beat one of the biggest threats in single combat and he's still not taking me seriously.

He takes a step forward into a fighting crouch, though his front leg wobbles. The hem of his shorts is torn and his right leg is criss-crossed with painful red welts, probably from some sort of ocean stinger. Whatever happened, it's a weakness that's easy to exploit and shark-Finnick smiles some more.

Like with Carla I decide to trust my speed, agility and skill with a weapon they won't be used to facing and rush him, sweeping the net up to tangle that weakened right leg as he tries to shuffle sideways. One easy tug and he falls with a yell, his throat colliding with my trident. Two of the prongs pierce all the way through and I rip sideways to open his neck. His blood spatters out, coating my arm that I throw up in front of my face and soaking through my tattered vest.

It feels wrong. It shouldn't be this easy to beat the strongest fighters in the Games. But he was wounded. Carla too, with that battered shoulder and whatever other injuries she was carrying from the fight with Angelus and the melee with Ten.

As tempting as it is to wash myself clean in the salt water I decide not to risk it after seeing the stinger marks on Marcellus' leg. Instead I rip the vest off and use the cleaner parts to wipe myself down before throwing it away beside the dead boy. It's not like I need it in the weather and I can imagine bundling up all the self-loathing I feel in it and throwing that clear. Plenty of time to think about things after the Games are done, I tell myself firmly, and there's already enough dead to my name that stopping now won't do me any good.

Only four of us left, I realize as the hovercraft carries another of my former allies away. Just me, Anita, big shy Rosie and secretive Markus. As I sit and rest on the sands, replenishing my body I wonder which of them the Gamemakers will push into my path next.

~xXx~

I spend the rest of the day cutting more vines and repairing the holes Carla put in my net. It seems to be holding up surprisingly well. I decide I've done enough interesting for one day and set up camp, aided by another sponsor gift, this time a whole baked salmon with potatoes and salad and a bottle of fresh fruit juice. I lay out my sleeping bag, reclaimed from Carla's packs and lie back, watching the stars as they flicker into the night until they are replaced by the Panem seal and the anthem blares. Carla and Marcellus, District Two out in one day. That's three years in a row now that none of their tributes have made top three. I wonder how desperate they'll be in the next Games. Hopefully they won't take it out from the boy from my district, who, if I make it to the end of these Games I'll be mentoring.

My mind unhelpfully provides the image of a larger, meaner looking Marcellus chopping up Oris while laughing and I go back to counting stars until I've drowned that part back down again. I'm shark-Finnick now, and I will stay this way until the Games are done. Even then I might need this darker side; I can't imagine what it must be like to watch over a tribute and try to protect them only to see them helpless and dead. Even if it's someone I don't know I'll still be partly responsible.

One thing at a time, I remind myself, reaching out for a spare bit of vine and twisting it through my collected knowledge of knots, focusing only on each loop as it forms and unforms beneath my fingers.

I must drift off after a bit because I wake with it still in my hand deep into the night and toss it aside in favor of my trident. I try to sleep some more but my mind is too awake, buzzing at the thought that it won't be much longer before these Games are all done that I eventually get up and start moving, heading along the soft sand barefoot and bare chested, my path lit by the bright moon just starting to wane from full.

The sun rises inch by inch over the treetops, bathing the arena and the scattered clouds a bloody red. Red sky at night, sailor's delight; red sky in morning, sailors take warning as the old saying goes. I can actually see the rain falling across the other finger of land, hard and heavy though the sky above this half of the arena stays clear. Thunder rumbles overhead and for a moment I'm nine years old again, back on that storm-tossed crate holding on for my life with frozen, water-wrinkled fingers. Soaking and shivering as the sharks circle, ready to strike the moment I lose concentration.

Only I'm the shark now, and apparently the storm has another target in mind because the lightning flashes down three times in a small area, sending up a puff of smoke that is quickly doused by the torrential downpour. Suddenly there's a flicker of movement on the top of the distant cliff, a lonely figure who stumbles and falls from the high edge, bouncing hard against a jagged spur of rock rising out of the churning sea. The loud boom of thunder that follows is actually a cannon firing I realize, and judging by the bulk of the figure it has to have been Rosie from Eleven.

Only three of us left now, and as I make my way to the north, onto the bay that joins the two fingers and back up to a central point of the arena. I'm tempted to aim for the cornucopia, a nice easy place for the Gamemakers to drive Anita and Markus, but when I start out that way I encounter a grumpy looking skunk who scurries through the trees and stops directly in my path, turning its hind to me and raising on its back legs in warning. I take the hint and go the other way, back towards that second smaller lake and open grassy plain.

I try not to think as I go, just focus on putting one foot in front of the other, keeping my right hand sweat-free and my grip on the trident strong. Keeping the net balanced, slung neatly folded over my left shoulder so that it can't slide down and tangle my feet, the lead-rope tied around left wrist. I stop every hour or so, checking all around before drinking a few mouthfuls and eating a bite of an energy bar to stay in peak readiness. Focus on chewing and swallowing and the rustle of my pack as I put it away because if I let myself think I'll be worrying about whether or not I can kill Anita.

I'm so focused on all these little things that I nearly don't register the cannon that fires in the late afternoon. I stop and stare around stupidly and eventually spot the hovercraft two or three miles north, up closer to the edge of the swamp. I won't know for another few hours who it was, but I have a sneaking suspicion it was my district partner. Maybe the Gamemakers don't want to risk potential friends refusing to fight—one of our older victors did just that in her Games when it came down to her and her district partner, and it only ended when the boy was bitten by a snake, and I've seen other Games where allies became so close that they may have refused to finish it if it had come down to them at the end.

No, the Gamemakers are smarter than that. Every year we see a story told in the Games. Sometimes it's the story everyone expects, sometimes they have to twist things a bit to fit a narrative, but in the end there is always a story where a point is made.

This year it will be the rise of a young, handsome volunteer whose last fight will be against the tribute who killed the district partner he described as a 'big sister'. At least I assume Markus killed her. It's what I'm meant to think, anyway, and will lead to the perfect ending for their story. Either the young hero comes out triumphant or his tragic death at the hands of his last remaining foe will be the great twist ending. I've seen enough of both on Capitol-made films over the years, and I have no doubt the crowd will love either ending.

The sun sets, the anthem plays and Anita's smiling face glows against the stars. I remember back to the night we arrived in the Capitol, when we both looked up at the sky in shock because the bright city lights drowned out the twinkling constellations above. I don't cry. I was prepared for it and it's better this way. I let my features settle into determined anger after I finish eating and toss aside everything but a single water bottle, my trident and my net. It's time to end the story.

~xXx~

I don't stop when I reach the area the hovercraft collected Anita's body from. I even find the exact spot, given away by the churned-up ground, broken bushes and a smear of blood on a rock beside the stream. A few muddy footprints lead away into the deeper forest, too big to come from Anita's sandals. I touch one to test how dry the mud is then follow the direction. It feels almost as though a path opens up beneath my feet as I walk. There are less brambles than I remember in other forest sections, no fallen trees or ankle-tangling tree roots. The Gamemakers don't want me to fall over and injure myself before the final fight. I'm sure right now there's music playing as they show a montage of me and probably Markus heading towards our final meeting. It's prime night time viewing and this long but easy path is here to build the anticipation until we reach a camera-friendly place to duel.

I reach the clearing second. The moon up above is huge and unnaturally bright, giving us enough light to see each other clearly. Markus doesn't look like he's had the easiest time. He's lost weight and while he shifts from foot to foot in a fighter's stance the movement causes him to sway a little too much. His right bicep is wound tight with crude grass bandages and lines of dried blood run down to his wrist, and his right cheek and lip are swollen. I guess Anita did some damage on her way down.

He warily eyes my net as I tighten my grip on the coil of vine and wipe my trident hand clean of sweat on my shorts. There doesn't seem to be anything either of us need to say as we slowly approach and circle. He's armed with a long, sturdy branch that he holds in a proper quarterstaff grip, and there's a larger knife jammed into his belt and a smaller one tied to his other leg with some vines.

When we're ten feet apart I jab the air between us with my trident and he leaps backwards, nearly turning his ankle. His face clouds with anger and he lunges forwards, turning side-on so that my thrust goes wide and sweeps his staff up towards my knee. It's a practiced move and I block it with my shin, wincing at the stinging pain.

I try to fall back to get enough space to cast the net, but he seems to realize what I'm doing and closes again, feinting a top strike to my face and slamming the base of the staff into my side. I retaliate with a quick scything sweep and hook that rips a tear in his other bicep and forces him away. He backs off a few steps and doubles over, then quickly stands upright, flinging his smaller knife at my face. I duck and he's on me again, always trying to stay in close where he has the advantage.

His staff bangs my trident hand, striking across the mostly healed fingers with a nasty WHAP, but I manage to hold on. I try to kick for his groin, but he turns and catches it on his hip, driving back hard, once again preventing me from getting space to make a proper throw. For the casting net to work properly it needs time and space to spread out. He knows this, so I decide to go for surprise and launch the net anyway. It's not a good throw and he responds by grabbing two of the thicker strands and pulling hard, tugging me off balance. I use my trident to sever the vine rope tied around my wrist and regain my footing as he backs away, not worried about some distance now that my range weapon is gone.

He wrenches himself free of the tangling vines as I push forward, trying to get a good strike while his hands are busy. The prongs find his ribs again, slicing deeper this time as he turns side-on once more and tugs his arm free of the net. I expect him to toss it behind him and grab up his staff to continue the fight pole-arm to pole-arm, but instead he launches my net back at me. Like my throw, the distance is too short and he doesn't have it properly coiled to spread, but I'm not expecting it.

I duck instinctively, wincing as the rock weights slam across my face and turn side-on like he did to me to dodge the obvious follow-up strike. His net-throw aimed more for my trident arm, which is heavily tangled and I wrench my knife free of my belt and start slashing the vines trapping my hand while he wobbles slightly and clutches at his side.

His hand comes away soaked with blood and he snarls angrily, driving himself forwards trying to end the fight before I can get my best weapon free. I throw the knife at him, forcing him away for another few seconds while I twist my trident free of the net and switch it to my left hand.

I know I'm not that strong with my off-hand, but he doesn't and he drops back to warily circling as I give up on untying my right hand and collect up the thicker lines into my grip so that I don't trip on them. He charges that right side, staff swinging viciously and I swing my net-wrapped arm in a wide arc, letting several of the weighted strands wrap around the shaft of his branch. A few of them catch and I see his eyes widen as I pull hard. He releases his grip on his staff half a second too late and my left-hand trident thrust pierces his stomach. He moans as the barbed outer prongs rip open his guts and curls up on the ground at my feet, fists clenched in agony. I stand over him, grip the green shaft of my trident with both hands and strike down hard, planting the longer central prong deep into his skull. The final cannon fires and the trumpets sound to announce my victory as the cheers of the Capitol crowd fill the arena. I sit down and untangle the net from my arm while I wait for the hovercraft to arrive.

Winning has never felt so empty and pointless.


	12. Chapter 12

Mags tacks a path through the doctors and Games staff as soon as the hovercraft lands and gathers me up in a huge hug. I wrap my arms around her in return and bury my face into her shoulder, escaping from the cameras I can still feel following me for just a few minutes.

Prying hands try to force us apart and someone shoves a microphone in my face asking for my comments. I react instinctively, grabbing the weapon and lunging towards them, ready to strike.

Strong arms catch me and haul me backwards as two other peacekeepers grab the journalist, who apparently wasn't supposed to be here and marches them away. I struggle against the grip, for a minute seeing only enemies trying to kill me until Mags puts her hands on either side of my face and forces me to look at her, reminding me of where I am.

I stop struggling and fall limp in their grip, all my energy drained. I'm safe now, I try to remind myself. Shark-Finnick's time is done. Mags turns and glares around the entire group of people surrounding us.

"I say this every year, and every year you people don't listen. Give. Him. Space."

They back away under her furious reprimand, leaving me on my own wobbly legs but feeling a lot less pressured to defend myself.

She keeps her hand on my shoulder as she leads me inside, back into the Training Center lift, back to the apartment with its awful angular furniture and nudges me gently into a chair. Someone hands me a drink, fruit flavored and somehow both sweet and salty at the same time. I reach up to wipe my mouth with my right hand and hiss in pain.

"I believe they were re-broken," a clipped Capitol voice says over my shoulder. I turn quickly and end up spilling half the drink down my front.

The white-coated man waves an impatient hand at two attendants who start cleaning it up and turns to Mags, apparently continuing a conversation.

"You can see why I think it would be better."

She crosses her arms stubbornly, shakes her head with a sigh and uncrosses them.

"You may be right on that one point. Why don't we let him decide?"

They both turn to me and start to speak, then stop and glare at one another. Mags smiles wryly and waves him on. He clears his throat and faces me officiously.

"We need to fix up your wounds, which are all essentially minor, and it is customary to provide victors with a full body polish to remove all scars and blemishes. I feel this would be easier for all of us if you went under sedation for, say twenty-four hours. Your…ah…mentor would prefer you to stay awake and to not have the polish, though I would like to remind her that the Gamemakers-"

"The Gamemakers can order the moon to dance for all I care, if Finnick doesn't want your unnecessary cosmetic treatments-"

"They are entirely necessary, especially for a victor who seems to insist on going about half-naked-"

They continue arguing while my head spins. I hadn't thought much about what Mags said about the sponsors while I was in the arena, but I suspect it's one of the reasons she is arguing against them doing anything to me.

A shrill electronic ringing noise splits the air and the doctor holds a hand up to silence Mags while he unfolds a communicator and answers. I can't hear the other end of the conversation, but whoever called him seems to be doing most of the talking, while he makes affirmative noises. Finally he hands the device over to Mags, who scowls as she puts it to her ear. Whatever they say to her doesn't make her any happier and she closes the device with a snap and throws it hard back at the doctor.

"I'm sorry Finnick," she says shortly. "It seems our preferences are being overruled. You are to go with Doctor Esterlin and his team down to the medical center. It will be ok, and if they do anything more than just a simple body polish I will make them regret it. Understood?"

"Well," says Doctor Esterlin, "surely a few other enhancements in the-"

He stops when Mags gets right up in his face and grabs onto his white coat, pulling him down until he is eye to eye with her.

"Anything else and I will personally rip your balls off and shove them down your throat, do you understand?"

The doctor squeaks and nods and she lets him go.

I need the help of a hovering Games assistant to stand, trying hard not to think about what they might want to enhance as we make our way back into the lift and down to a below-ground level bathed in unnatural white light.

A pretty nurse smiles at me as she settles me onto the bed and wipes clean my hand to insert a needle. I smile back instinctively as she tells me to start counting backwards from twenty. I make it to fourteen before the world goes black.

~xXx~

The yelling brings me back around, though it is distant, muffled, through at least one closed door I realize once I become aware of my surroundings.

Something moves over to my left and I twist around quickly, hands reaching for a weapon. Gabriela, Anita's mentor smiles back from her chair next to the bed.

"Don't worry, it's completely normal to be a bit jumpy. Even now I still reach for a knife if someone sneaks up on me."

Her Games were at least a decade ago, and if she's still jumping at strange sounds I guess it's ok for me to be too. The shouting outside gets louder, accompanied by a door slamming. The voice sounds suspiciously like Mags.

Gabriela shakes her head sadly as another loud slam echoes through the building.

"They kept you under for nearly two days when they said it would only be one, and they, well…"

She points to my bare front. I look down and immediately notice my pectoral muscles seem to have grown larger. Further down, my abdominal muscles stand out like a movie hero in a perfect six-part arrangement.

"She stopped them before they did anything else," Gabriela says. "Broke that smarmy doctor's wrist when he tried to throw her out just to be sure he couldn't keep on going. They arrested her for assault of course, but I guess they let her back out. I think she was told she couldn't come see you yet, which is why she asked me to sit in."

The door thuds open and Mags walks in, her face flushed and her long gray hair slightly disheveled. She looks at Gabriela who gives her a nod and she relaxes a little.

"Are you ok?" I ask, worried that she might be in trouble because of me.

She smiles back, her own shark smile, the one no-one ever argues with, and says, "No, no. Just a small misunderstanding. I've apologized to the good Doctor and even tried to shake his hand."

Both Gabriela and I laugh at that, perfectly sure which hand and wrist she shook and how hard she shook it.

"He has agreed not to make any more alterations and I have allowed him to keep his man-parts attached to his body, and we have both agreed not to bring the Gamemakers into this again."

"That's all?" Gabriela asks pointedly, and Mags waves away the question. "Oh they fined me three months of my victor's salary and made some noise about restricting my sponsors for next year. Nothing important, and certainly a sacrifice I'm willing to make to stop them turning you into the next Ignatius Plenny."

I wrinkle my nose at the name of the obnoxious movie star who played a womanizing hero in a series awful action films. We always used to laugh about his obviously altered muscles and face when we saw the movies on TV. I look down again and poke my abdomen.

"It's steroidal injections not implants, thank goodness," Mags tells me as she nudges my feet aside and sits on the end of the bed. "Without further treatments it should wear off in a few months, though I expect you'll replace them with the real thing."

I shrug. Probably. I couldn't imagine not staying fit after all the years of training.

"Do you remember the thing we talked about on the train?" Mags asks after pointedly glancing around the room. I nod.

"Already crossed my mind," I tell her, though really I've tried not to think about it.

"Well," she says as she stands again, brushing her skirt flat, "I'll just remind you that minors are not granted full control of their bank accounts until they are at least sixteen. And, of course the legal entry age to a lot of clubs is eighteen, though many people stretch it a year or two. Not four though."

I take the hint, that I have a little bit of time before I can be touched by any sort of sponsors looking for more than a blown kiss. Maybe after a year or two I won't be so interesting. After all, there will be new victors in town, maybe just as good looking as me, just as interesting.

There's a loud knock on the doorframe and a timid looking Games staffer sticks his head in, swallowing heavily before he says, "Excuse me, but if it's ok we would like to bring Finnick his lunch now, and then maybe after shoot the reunion? If you don't mind?"

The boy, who barely looks older than me actually takes a full step backwards when Mags raises an eyebrow. I wonder if he was there when she broke that doctor's arm.

She cackles with laughter and winks at me before holding out an arm to Gabriela.

"Come on dear, I think they know better than to try anything else with our boy. Let's get this nonsense over with."

She turns to me and adds, "Don't take too long eating, and get that camera smile ready. I'll see you in a bit."

They leave, the boy taking another step back as the women walk past him. He looks back at me and flinches when he sees my grin. I wonder if he's just scared of everyone, the sort who thinks District folk are savages. Then I realize this was probably the same grin I was wearing while I stood over the dead bodies of tributes in the arena.

"I'll…I'll just go get your...um...lunch." The boy backs away, stammering as my smile falls and disappears into the corridor.

He returns a few minutes later with a small plate of stew and bread, setting them on the furthest edge of the bedside table and not looking at me as he asks if I can manage eating without help.

I flex the fingers of my right hand, which only ache a little and say, "I think I can manage."

He nods while backing away, and flees once he gets past the doorframe. I wonder, as I tuck into my food why they have someone so timid doing this. Then again, it's better than some giggling girl trying to flirt with me.

Once I've finished eating the boy returns with a copy of my Games outfit, which he places on the end of the bed. He scurries over to the table where my plate that I literally licked clean is waiting and grabs it without making eye contact, hurrying away again.

I can't help but laugh as I change into new, fresh sandals and shorts, ripped authentically to match the damage it took in the arena. As I unfold the shorts a flash of metal catches my eye as a slither of movement drags the object to the ground. My district token. Well some of it anyway. It's missing the pearl bead and one of Oris' shell beads, and the pendant my trident teacher Torric gave me is tied on wrong, but that doesn't really matter. I squeeze it gently until the tiny bronze sword pokes into my soft, smooth skin.

My hands are flawless now, and while there's no mirror to check I can only assume the rest of me is too. They even took away some of the older scars, the markings on my thigh where I fell off a rooftop two years back, the tiny line on my left palm when I accidentally tested the sharpness of my first knife when I was seven.

I should look younger with this softening. I guess that was why Doctor Esterlin wanted to give me a few extra enhancements. I wrinkle my nose one more time as I poke the ridiculous abs; they usually shoot the reunion with the victor wearing clothes identical to how they ended their Games, so I get to go topless and show off my new stupid muscles.

I make my way out into the hall and down the corridor. They often show the official reunion of the victor and their team as a prelude to the post-Games events, so I make sure my hair is ruffled and my smile is good before stepping through the door where the people who helped get me through the Games are waiting. I go straight to Mags, ignoring her protests as I grab her in a huge hug and pick her up, spinning her around with a laugh.

"Put me down Finnick Odair!" she cries, whacking at my arms, but she's laughing too when I do set her back on her feet and messes my hair some more, earning her a dark look from Phineas. My stylist is wearing a tight suit jacket in a suspiciously familiar shade of green and shakes my hand, offering his own congratulations. He seems more cheerful than I remember. Then again, I might have just made him very rich.

Acanthus also seems genuinely pleased to see me, shaking my hand firmly and clasping my shoulder in a friendly way. "So glad to see you back," he says with a smile. "You've managed to become _quite_ the sensation."

I glance at Mags at this, who gives me a slight nod. I had assumed, like all good-looking and competitive tributes that I wouldn't lack for Capitol sponsors but it sounds like they're suggesting something more than usual.

Once we're done hugging and chatting for the cameras I'm sent off with Phineas and reunited with my prep team to ready me for the first post-Games event. Euthalia has streaked her bright yellow hair with blue and green to match her heavy eye make-up. Theodorus has had his hair dyed to match my own bronze and shows me a new tattoo he had done two days ago of a net and trident to mark my victory. Even stiff Pelagius has tridents painted on his nails in glowing metallic paints.

"Oh Finnick _darling_ , you're simply a star," Euthalia says as she directs me into a warm, silky-smooth bath. "Everyone loves you, and your look of course. Did you know there have been shortages of Autumn Bronze hair color since the _third_ day of the Games? Can you believe it?"

"Don't forget that the tanning salons are still booked out with people trying to get this lovely golden skin," Pelagius adds. " _And_ there's a fifty-person waiting list at Mellania's clinic for getting your eyes re-colored according to Dania Cardew, though she does sometimes exaggerate the poor girl. And I've heard that the clinic can't actually match this natural color anyway, but of course it doesn't stop people from trying."

"Dania Cardew? Why do you even talk to her? I thought she dropped you for that, oh what was his name? The author fellow with the funny nose."

My head swirls as they continue on chattering about strangers trying (and by the sound of things often failing) to look like me. The way they are talking you would assume that the entire Capitol is a fan of mine. Which is crazy. There's always factions and fans for at least a few of the top tributes.

They finish cleaning me off, then wrap me in a robe ready for my stylist Phineas, who arrives carrying an armful of various green shirts, pants and suit jackets. He drops these on a chair and encourages me to stand with a wave of his hand as he circles around me with a thoughtful expression.

"It really is a shame your mentor is so uptight about you getting some simple modifications," he says as he pulls my robe away with a gentle tug. "It would make you look so much more mature."

"I don't want to look more mature," I tell him with a grin as he begins to sort through the shirts holding one after another up against me.

"Nonsense," he replies as he winces at one particularly bright colour. "All children your age want to look older."

"Nah," I tell him, "Growing up means being responsible and I've never been very good at that."

He tutts a little as he hands me the shirt he is currently holding gesturing for me to put on. I slide it over my shoulders, enjoying the soft rippling feeling as it slips down my back. Almost as soon as it's on he tells me to take it back off again, muttering under his breath.

The next shirt is too big and the third is also the wrong shade of green. The fourth has an interesting pattern of rippling swirls like undercurrents of waves formed by barely different shades of thread. I actually quite like it and it appears my stylist does too. He tells me to leave the buttons undone as he moves on to some matching pants. These end up being a much darker shade of green, the sort that would look black from a distance. There's a matching jacket in the same color but I only have it on for a few seconds before Phineas pulls it off again and throws it aside. Like my pre-Games interview outfit the shirt is only half buttoned.

He spends a lot more time fiddling with my hair, which still has some of the highlights from the parade in it. He also tries to talk me into getting rid of my district token once again but this time I just grin at him and shake my head. As soon as he sees that smile he stops talking about it and sticks with rubbing more sticky goo to make my hair look like I've just stepped off a fast boat.

I look in the mirror when he's done and notice with some disgust that the shirt is tight enough to show off some of my stupid new muscle lines. I try to pull the front of the shirt out a little but Phineas slaps away my hands and settles it back in its original position.

"Perhaps we should go a size smaller to really emphasize your improved abdominals," he says as he stares over my shoulder in the mirror. I shake my head. The last thing I want while having to watch through my Games is the inability to breathe because of tight clothing.

Suddenly I really don't want to go out on the stage tonight. I really don't want to watch all the deaths, all the people I killed. I especially don't want to do it with a smile. But I know it will be expected. Many other volunteer victors spend their Games viewing cheering and waving and egging the crowd on. I wonder now for the first time how many of them were acting. If I get a chance I might ask Gabriela. Then again she played her Games quite sneakily, so she could get away with staying in that sly secretive persona that didn't react while watching.

Our last victor, Wade made a bit of a show celebrating some of his later plays and kills I remember. Then again he is a bit of a jerk. He might not have been acting. I decide to keep smiling if I can but to not overly celebrate any of the deaths. It's probably the best balance I can manage.

Phineas messes with my hair for a few more minutes before declaring me presentable. He walks alongside me as we head to the area under the stage, giving me frustrated glances every time I inadvertently touch my face or hair. He readjusts my shirt for a fourth time as we join Mags, Acanthus and my prep team.

Mags shoos him away and pulls my shirt back to a looser position, ignoring my stylist's glare. She bends down to give me a brief hug and whispers in my ear, "Remember to keep smiling."

I was already planning on doing that. She steps back, fixing her own hair as she takes her place on one of the metal platforms as I'm directed to my own by a fussy assistant. Overhead a sudden loud roar makes all of us jump. Euthalia laughs loudly in excitement as I realize the sound came from the waiting crowd.

The prep team are the first to rise to the stage where they are greeted by a second a similar wave of noise. As Phineas follows, already wearing that smug smile I suddenly shiver. These rising platforms are far too reminiscent of the tubes we entered the arena in to make any victor feel comfortable.

I glance over at Mags as my escort is announced and starts his ascent. She doesn't seem bothered. Then I remember in her Games they didn't rise on platforms into the arena but entered through doors in the wall. She gives me a smile of encouragement as her platform rises and she stands tall, well as tall as she can for someone half a foot shorter than me, her chin held high.

I get a few moments of privacy which I use to pull my shirt even looser and ruffle my hair out of its artificially arranged style. My hand instinctively reaches for its trident when the platform begins to move but I managed to regain my shark grin before the cameras are on me again. The roar from the crowd is so loud that I nearly take a step backwards. For a moment there is just a blinding swirl of flights and color and noise that I can't bring into focus, almost as though I'm looking at the world from underwater. Then Caesar, who is suddenly beside me, or maybe he was always was and I just didn't notice, touches me lightly on the arm.

It takes a huge effort not to appear startled and I cover by cheerfully shaking the host's hand. Caesar goes along with this without question and keeps a gentle hold on my arm as he guides me to the front of the stage and the waiting chair. My victors throne is heavy cast bronze, the back shaped like the prongs of the trident and the seat crafted from a spilled net. I smile and wave to the crowd as I'm expected to before I take my seat. I notice as I sit that the net isn't right, at least for fishing. For some reason this annoys me.

Luckily I'm not expected to talk during this event and make an effort to keep on smiling as Caesar leads us into the start of the recording of the 65th Hunger Games. There's always a story to tell in these official versions, and I pretty much knew mine while I was still in the arena. Sure enough the focus is on a brave young man, the hero like in a fairy tale of old, fearless and handsome fighting passed all obstacles as he seeks to reach ultimate glory.


	13. Chapter 13

They start by showing the reapings and I'm reminded of all the faces I forgot, the children who died at the bloodbath or away from our pack whose names I didn't remember or even learn. The small, the weak, the uninteresting. I get a sharp view of Anita's face when they show my reaping, looking fierce and joyful. I also get a glimpse of Oris as I take his place on the stage. The brother of my heart. Suddenly I can't wait to be home with them again.

The rest of the pre-Games flash by in a brief montage of the chariot rides and short clips from the interviews before we enter the arena from Tarris Smith's point of view. The camera rises to give a full view of the two fingers of land extending from the northern swamp into the wonderful blue sea before sweeping back down and around the circle of waiting faces. They give us the full bloodbath, showing each kill in detail. I look a lot more confident than I felt as I put my spear into big Solphis Gunner's throat once again.

Marcellus and Carla each taking down their two, Angelus with his arrogant smirk as he cuts through the leg of the scrawny boy from Twelve. My district partner spearing helpless Maria in the back, big Rosie Plane knocking away the girl from Nine as they fight over a backpack. The girl, whose name is helpfully supplied as Jancis Young risks a second dive forwards after Rosie's retreating back and the girl from Eleven isn't so merciful the second time as her fist crushes Jancis' throat. Rosie turns and flees south, while Markus who was nearby, that long knife already held in a practiced grip takes a few steps after her, shakes his head and wheels east instead.

I also get to see what actually happened to Citrine, who like me stopped to pick up a knife about halfway between her start plate and the Cornucopia. She sees Ida from Ten off to her side and sprints at her, knife flashing down to take out her foe. Except Ida sees her coming and twists away, grabbing her hand and wrestling with my old ally for control of the blade. Citrine does pull free, shoving the smaller girl to the ground but is forced to turn and face her district partner Tarris, who charges in with a wooden club much like the one Solphis attacked me with.

She manages to disarm him, but he keeps her busy long enough for Ida to grab the club and belt her in the head a few times. Citrine loses her grip on the knife and Tarris snatches it, striking as the girl from One throws a blind kick to disengage. The point slices all down her thigh and they move in for the kill until they see Markus running in their direction and back away.

From there the story wends its way through our long days of hunting, cutting out most of the trekking and boring standing guard and focusing on the kills and our occasional interesting conversation. I can see now the dark looks Angelus shoots at my turned back, the way his hand clenches on his sword hilt after I say or do something either to annoy him or when I play to the sponsors.

They show a close cut of my face as I throw my spear into the leg of little, scared Wheela from Six and I shiver at the look on my own face. Hungry and excited. I remember someone had said something about me being the baby of the group and that I'd wanted to prove to the others I was good enough to keep up. I can't imagine how much worse it will be once I slipped into my shark mind.

Now I get to see what happened to the other tributes during our days of jogging through the forests and slodging through the swamp edge. Like we thought, Demmy from Twelve had a run-in with the gator mutt and fell into the stream bleeding heavily from the ragged ruins of her right arm. She drowns in three feet of water after passing out from the pain and blood loss.

The boy from Three, Joulian was hiding out close to our camp for those early days, probably hoping that our alliance would leave the cornucopia unguarded. He manages to steal away an apple and a water bottle when Citrine ducks into the bushes for a few minutes, but is forced to hide and starve as our guard gave him no other chance. He watches on, eyes shadowed with fury as Marcellus destroys all the supplies we weren't planning on taking and as soon as our pack leaves for the north, scurries out of cover to salvage what he can.

To my surprise he immediately eats the two stinking fish that I'd tossed from my satchel, which either were poisonous or had just gone off from the heat. Either way he spends most of the next day being violently ill, according to the voice-over, which only gets worse once he drinks untreated water from the edge of the lake.

They cut out most of our journey around the swamp, though I notice that they spend a couple of minutes showing me with my shirt off while I clean out my wounds and joke with my allies. It gets a round of cheers and whistles from the live audience and I give them a small smile and wave after Caesar shoots me a pointed look.

We also get the full gator mutt fight, including good vision of Angelus staying as far back as he can. They play a swell of heroic music when Marcellus, Carla and I dive in to save Anita, accompanied by another loud cheer from the crowd. This time I'm happy to smile and wave. Of all the things that happened in the arena, this is one I can be proud of.

Then they cut back to the boy from Three, who is huddled in a moaning ball, covered in bug bites and mess from his own body. He dies miserable and alone. No-one seems to care.

There's also the boy from Five, who gets snared by a woven grass and vine net that Markus hung in the trees by a stream, along with the help of his district partner. The pair from Eight must have agreed not to kill each-other if they met in the arena, and spend a day and a half working together until they catch another tribute. Jannifer wants to let the boy join them but Markus doesn't trust anyone and kills him. She watches him warily after that and appears to meekly obey all his orders but runs away as soon as he falls asleep to hide in that long band of forest where I eventually found her.

As expected, they play out the fight between our alliance and the pair from Ten in full, starting with Ida spotting us jogging across the grassy plain and dragging her ally into the only nearby cover. They argue quietly over whether or not they will try to surprise us, and eventually Ida wins and Tarris readies his sling. A few clips earlier had shown him to be a skillful slinger, bringing down birds and forest critters to eat with his well tossed rocks. Ida isn't nearly as good, which is why the stones aimed for Anita and Carla go wide when they launch their attack.

Had she been more accurate we would have been in serious trouble I realize as the live audience cheers along with the fight my body remembers all too well. Marcellus and Citrine both hit in the head, groggy and concussed makes it two-to-one. Tarris also slung the stone that broke my fingers, though he was probably aiming for my head while I was bent over my ally from One.

If even one of Ida's rocks had hit they would have nearly been fighting even. I focus on the fight again as the crowd boos loudly, Angelus hovering on the edge of the bushes as though he's scared to join the fight. I wonder suddenly if that's why he was so aggressive in his manner. He knew he didn't want to be in a real fight, though I can't think why he would choose to volunteer if that was true.

I'm still not sure how exactly Tarris disarms Carla. One moment they are both wrestling over the same blade and suddenly it's wedged to the hilt in her thigh. He shoves her backwards into Marcellus, who had been groggily trying to get to his hands and knees and dives at my unguarded back. Anita's cry and grab at our enemy's ankle prevents Tarris' knife from sinking into my back and I remember the strange sharp pain around my throat as I see his grasping fingers catch in my token necklace. I raise my fingers to my throat as I watch the little pieces fly free on the screen, clasping down on the sword and trident pendant until the blunt points start to sting. There's a muted cheer from the audience for both Citrine and Ida's deaths, and when the time comes I force another smile as my spear point rips open Tarris Smith's throat.

One of the smaller side-screens, which has mostly been showing my reactions and shots of the crowd cuts in close to where the mentors are seated, where a sharp-faced woman swallows heavily, her pale face tight. Tarris' aunt, I realize. I feel my smile starting to falter as the me on screen collapses under the weight of the dead boy to resounding applause.

Their clapping slows in time with the beat of the new music track that starts playing and the action immediately cuts to the next morning, our breakfast fight that starts with Marcellus losing his temper and ends with Angelus losing his life. The pair from two help patch each other up—Marcellus with rough bandages on his face and arm and his freshly broken nose re-centered, Carla with her possibly broken collarbone, as well as the knife wound in her leg that Angelus re-opened with a vicious kick before he turned on me. Their alliance only lasts until sunset though, when Marcellus orders her to start packing and move out and she refuses to leave. They agree to split, with her staying still until her wounds are more healed, while he storms away (in the opposite direction to what I went, I notice suddenly; he must have respected me as a threat after all).

Then they show me receiving the trident. A close up on my face shows the burning excitement in my eyes as I hold it for the first time, as I drive it into a boulder, feeling the strength and the perfect balance. Unlike the forced shark smile I'm wearing now I see my real eager grin, admiration for the perfect beauty of the weapon I am holding. I don't remember raising it to the sky back then, but I must have done so unconsciously as a thank-you to Mags and to the sponsors who made it possible. As I do there is a screaming blare of trumpets followed by a fast-paced music track like they use in the action films while the hero is training.

Sure enough the following minutes are a montage of me practicing jabs and tying my net. In between we get brief flashes of Anita doubling back to try and take out Carla and reclaim the larger part of the supplies, of Markus fighting off a swarm of bats with his staff with strong and practiced sweeps. We see Marcellus trying to fish while waist deep in the lapping ocean waters once he realizes the sponsors aren't pulling through until a stinger lashes his leg and he crawls from the lapping water swearing, tears streaming involuntarily down his face. Back to me bathing in the salt water, pouring it over my head as though it is strengthening me. Rosie, who spent the entire Games hiding out in the southern-most part of our original finger of land, who we never quite reached because of the piranha attack, and who stubbornly fights off all the mutts the Gamemakers send at her to try and make her move. Back to me tying the little rocks onto the end of each strand and twirling the finished casting net high with a gleeful shout. Of terrified Jannifer from Eight stumbling through the forest, feet catching on tree roots, bare skin snagging on sharp brambles, swooping birds catching at her hair until she falls in a heap beside a large log and cries herself to sleep.

Finally the music dies as I start my walk into the forest and slaying the owl that had the bad fortune to fly across my path. Before I can prepare myself Finnick-on-screen has Jannifer caught in his net and speared dead, her last word an echoing whisper, "Please."

I do get a brief chance to compose myself as we get to see Anita and Carla having their third round over the supply packs. Neither is quite strong enough or lucky enough to kill the other, what with Carla's heavy wounds, and as soon as my old district partner starts losing the fight she retreats to the stream, where the girl from Two is hesitant to follow. This time I'm there to shift the balance with my quick and vicious attack. With one arm essentially helpless and her other well pinned, Carla never stood a chance. The fight with Marcellus is the same, though they don't even have the courtesy to show him fighting off the flock of gulls immediately before. He just appears with the dozen extra peck and claw marks around his deeply scored face and arm, and his heavily welted leg. Standing beside him cleaning his blood off my arms and chest I look nearly healthy.

I understand now that the lightning storm was a last ditch attempt by the Gamemakers to chase Rosie from her hiding place as each bolt strikes trees only feet away from her, leaving her reeling and terrified as she runs blindly from her little patch of safety. I remember back when I first spoke to her in training, she was struggling to stay on the narrow balance beams. Sure enough it's what gets her killed. She stumbles five feet from the cliff edge and her momentum carries her over the edge to the rocks below. In a way I'm glad, since it meant I didn't have to kill her too, and she died quick and relatively painlessly.

They hold the image of me on that cliff-top, net slung over my shoulder while I watch her fall for a few seconds more before turning to clips of the others leading into the penultimate fight. Markus gets the jump on Anita, who is re-tying her broken sandal-strap near a stream edge. His first strike with his staff probably breaks a few of her ribs and sends her toppling sideways with a scream. She kicks him hard in the knee and gets her arm up in the way of his next swing at her head. She instinctively grabs the staff and tries to pull it away, or at least drag him down onto the ground with her, but he lets go and pulls his knife instead.

Again she blocks his strike with her arm, shrieking in pain as the sharp blade slices through her left hand, leaving two of her fingers dangling loose. Somehow she gets her own smaller knife in her other hand and stabs back blindly, the hilt smacking him in the face while the point gouges his arm. He grabs her good wrist and slams it back to the ground as he climbs on top of her, pinning her smaller frame with his body. She tries one last desperate heave towards the stream as his knife slips between her ribs and into her heart but it's too late.

He stabs her again, then cuts her throat to be sure, and sits back as he examines the long, shallow wound down his bicep. With a sharp, angry motion he leans back over her dying body and snarls in her face, "You want to go swimming fish girl?" One quick shove and her body rolls over, down the muddy bank and into the water, where the piranha mutts are waiting. The cannon follows shortly after and he watches the hovercraft collect her chewed-up corpse with dead eyes while he ties her knife to his leg as an extra weapon.

Suddenly I'm a bit less sorry that I killed him. She didn't deserve that disrespect and if he hadn't caught her off guard the fight might have gone very differently. Though I would have been forced to face her in my final duel, and I don't think either of us would have wanted that.

Finally they show my long, angry walk to the clearing Markus has chosen, and the fight my body will probably remember forever. It almost does look like something from a cliché action film except for the lack of witty talking. It doesn't really show those few terrifying moments after he threw my net back at me, when I thought I was going to lose the fight. My movements all look mechanical and precise. Like I'd done them a hundred times before. His strikes have an edge of practice to them, but it's just not the same and I can see the fear in his face as I disarm him and sink my trident prongs into his gut.

The crowd goes silent as shark-Finnick on screen slowly stands and poses for a moment before bringing the final blow down. I can see the disappointment in my eyes as I look to the sky where the trumpets sounded and the roar of the crowd at the moment of my victory is doubled by the live audience now, who rise to their feet as the cheering goes on and on and on. There was no glory, there was no honor, there wasn't even that fleeting thrill of winning a fight like at training back home.

I stand and smile because I have to as President Snow himself takes to the stage to present me with my victor's crown. I'm tall enough that the President waits for me to kneel before taking the crown from the young boy beside him and settling it firmly on my hair. I stand slowly to make sure it doesn't slip off and shake his offered hand before returning to my duties of waving and bowing to the crowd.

~xXx~

At the Victory Banquet I get the first real understanding of what Mags and Acanthus were hinting about. As we enter the ballroom of the President's mansion I see the tables heaped with delicious food and remember how hungry I am. Two hours later I'm only half-way across the floor to them and with the pressing crowd it appears unlikely that I'll ever get a chance to eat. The names and faces float past so quickly I can't begin to focus on the couple who gush with delight as they hug me and have their friend snap photos before they are replaced by an older man who won't let go of my hand after shaking it who in turn is pushed aside by the cluster of teenage girls for their tenth round of claiming me.

Twice Mags tries to help steer me through a slight lull in the crowd and I move a few steps closer to the tantalizing smell of sweet pastries before she is pushed aside by some model or actor or government minister, all who want to talk to me, to shake my hand, to feel my muscles, to see if my hair is really as soft as it looks.

The crowd parts slightly again and I make another three steps forward before the gap closes and a trio of older women caked with make-up demand their turn of pinching my cheeks and telling me how gorgeous I am. Gabriela manages to distract the horde of teenagers from their eleventh assault though, and once I'm done thanking a young man who apparently sponsored me for a substantial sum I turn to the next body in line and find a napkin filled with three pastries and a large glass of sweet juice. Acanthus smiles wryly as he uses his stocky frame to block access to me for a few seconds while I inhale the food.

"I could see you drooling," he says primly as he takes the empty paper and glass back.

"Best escort ever," I tell him with a grin of my own before turning once again to face the next of the horde. A mother dripping in jewels and her three young daughters, all wanting hugs and photos. Over their heads I can see Mags backed into a corner by the cheek-pinching grannys, though she seems to be laughing with them.

I don't know how long the party goes on, but I'm pretty much asleep on my feet when Acanthus rescues me from four of the teenagers and leads me out to a waiting car.

"Where's Mags?" I ask as he closes the door and signals to the driver to leave.

"Oh she left, hmmm, nearly three hours ago. She's not young any more you know."

I blink in surprise. Of course I know she's not young, but after her aggressive protectiveness over the last few days I'm amazed she let me out of her sight.

Acanthus smiles at the look on my face and adds, "I had to swear on my family honor that I would bring you home safe and unmolested before dawn before she would go. That was after I had to wake her. Twice."

"She really does like you," I tell him drowsily as our short journey ends outside the Training Center.

He gives me a friendly nudge in return and helps support me to the lift and out into my bedroom on the fourth floor. I briefly think about taking a shower, but once I lie down on the wonderfully soft bed I fall quickly into darkness.

~xXx~

The final interview with Caesar Flickerman is filmed in the living room of our apartment. I ignore Phineas' muttering as he fiddles with my hair and shirt collar and watch the fluttering film crew as they set up. My shirt is green again, this time a shiny material with hundreds of tiny beads sewn on in fancy patterns that sparkle in the light. Bronze buttons set with some blue-green stone, mostly undone of course gleam just as brightly and draw attention away from the ragged necklace that my stylist has finally stopped trying to make me remove.

After three "near accidents" of him almost cutting the string and making it unwearable I finally told him he could either let me wear it or he could fight me for the privilege of taking it away. Apparently he decided it wasn't worth getting anything broken and went back to derisive sniffs and attempting to tuck most of it out of sight under a large folded down collar.

As soon as the cameras are ready and Mags and Caesar are finished with their friendly chat in the corner I'm directed to the pair of stiff armchairs. Caesar shakes my hand warmly and looks me in the eye as he asks, "How are you feeling Finnick?"

"Fine, really," I tell him with a smile that comes easily.

He looks into my face a few seconds more and nods firmly before drawing back to his own seat.

"Good, good. Now I've been over the preliminaries with Mags—don't worry I won't be asking anything too difficult-but remember if you get stuck just take a deep breath and let me help you. I'm sure it will be all fine though, all over before you know it."

He gives me that wide, famous toothy grin and I return it with my own.

"Good," He says again, though he frowns slightly at my tightly tucked, open-necked shirt. "We have a minute or so if you have any last minute things to take care of," he adds with a sly wink.

I check over my shoulder and don't see Phineas in the room. Perfect. It only takes me a few seconds to pull the shiny shirt loose, and to do up two more buttons so that only the top of my collarbone is visible. As a last thought I fold up the collar on one side to better show off my district token and run my hand through my hair to give it that properly messed look.

Caesar nods and gives me a countdown until we are live. Once we start talking it gets easier to go on and he starts with good, simple questions that I can answer without thinking: "What did you feel about your original alliance? What was each member's biggest strength? Biggest weakness? Who did you like best?"

As long as I focus on the earlier part of the Games it's easy to praise Marcellus for his leadership, Carla for her strength and focus, Citrine for her quiet durability. Anita of course for remaining in her role as a surrogate big sister. Even Angelus for giving me a rival for looks and someone I could have some fun with (even if it was at his expense). We laugh at Carla's misfortunes with the rivers and streams, at Citrine's run of bad luck in general right from the torn dress on interview night, at how ridiculous our alliance looked when we lost a battle with a school of fish.

He doesn't ask for in depth feelings about my first few kills, and segues after talking about our fight with Ten into some of the injuries I suffered. After a verbal nudge I thank the doctors of the Capitol for their hard work in removing my scars and making my hand like new, and catch Mags' smile as I pointedly don't mention the stupid muscle enhancers.

I realize he is leaving my hunt for the end as he starts asking about the various girls in the arena, which did I think was the prettiest, the feistiest, the strongest. I tell him that Anita, of course was the strongest, though I had a lot of respect for Carla and Citrine and Rosie too. None of the girls really stood out for beauty this year, the best being maybe Maria from Five. I can't say Anita of course, since she was like my sister and that would be weird. That gets a laugh from Caesar.

What was my favorite sponsor gift? (The trident of course, though the medicine and fish rolls both came close second). My favorite moment besides my final victory? (The fight with the gator mutt, when we all fought together against it). My favorite part of the arena (The beach where I made my net. Where else?)

Finally he gets down to the business end of the Games and I let shark-Finnick rise from the cold depths to talk about killing my former allies and friends. I don't have to pretend to hide my feelings about tracking down Markus after he killed Anita, though I do lie about the feeling of victory as I struck my final blow.

Suddenly Caesar is shaking my hand again and the camera people are talking because it's all over and I get to go home. Home. Back to Oris and Greta and Ric. Back to the clean, crisp air and glorious sunrises from the rooftop. Back to the water, where I can dive beneath the rolling waves and wash myself clean of all the guilt, all the pain, all the horror.

After all, the storm doesn't last forever and once it's gone I can start to live again.


End file.
